How the Strong Man Stumbled
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: A long multi-chapter story about male rape. How does one get through the trauma? Is it possible? Can even a strong man stand up again? Tim-centered, but a lot of the team as well. Already complete. Will post one chapter per day.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is my first, probably my only M-rated story. The reason for the rating is because of the subject matter. This is a story about male rape. It's not particularly explicit, but the rape is front and center in the story. If that bothers you, please...do us both a favor and don't read it. As always, when I address a heavy and uncomfortable topic like this, I try to do so accurately and with sensitivity, but this is not the kind of thing people may want to read. I was uncomfortable about writing it (and unsure about posting it here)...so I can hardly blame others for feeling the same. ...but I feel that it is something worth...shining a light on...even in a medium like this. It does happen. It happens too often, and it is too often hidden away because of social views about the victims. So...long warning, but I'm serious about both the topic and about my warning not to read if it makes you too uncomfortable.

**A/N2:** The title comes from a quotation by Theodore Roosevelt and will come up later on in the story.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS and I am not making money off this story.

* * *

**How the Strong Man Stumbled  
**by Enthusiastic Fish

**Chapter 1**

Business trips were the best things about being in the world of business. It was a chance to travel...on the company's tab, to be wined and dined by people who wanted either to be a _part_ of the business or to get _them_ to join in the business.

Lane and Mitchell had worked together for the better part of fifteen years. They were always sent out together on business trips because they fed off each other's enthusiasm. They had risen through the ranks together. Their wives were friends. Their children played together. The other employees had often remarked on how they seemed like twins separated at birth. They even looked something alike. Both were tall, good-looking, well-built, the same general shape. Lane was darker-skinned, a product of his Pacific Islander heritage, dark brown eyes that snapped with intelligence. Mitchell was white as could be. Raised in New England, rich parents, privileged upbringing...the works...but he was always the kind of person people were impressed with. He worked hard and had the successes to prove it.

They were the last two men in the world anyone would suspect of being serial rapists.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

They always got two hotels when they went traveling. One was booked by the company...and that was where they stayed. The other...well, the other was for..._special_ events. They switched off paying for it with credit cards used only for that specific purpose. The bills were paid online. No paper trail.

Now, they were in the club across the street, enjoying the atmosphere, enjoying the sights and sounds of the (slightly) younger set partying. They had an important meeting in the morning, and it was always a good idea to get into the right frame of mind for jousting with the competition. The music wasn't really their type, but it was an exciting place to be. The drinks were pretty good and the prices reasonable. Lane winked at their waitress, but only in fun. He loved his wife Patsy and would never dream of being unfaithful. Mitchell grinned but contented himself with leaving a large tip. Goodness knows, waitressing wasn't the most lucrative of careers.

After a couple of drinks, Mitchell pointed to his watch. (There was no point in trying to communicate verbally in the mayhem.) Lane nodded. The music stopped and he was about to stand when he was thrown back into his seat...by someone falling over top of him...along with something that was probably not water. Roars of laughter burst out from near the bar and his attacker fell with a thump to the floor.

"Sorry. I'm _so_ sorry," he said, earnestly, trying to help Lane clean up the drink that had been spilled all over him. His gaze went to the bar. "Tony! You–" He broke off as Mitchell noticed the expression on the face of the man named Tony. He looked unrepentant. "I don't know why I even bother. I'm really sorry. Can I replace your drink? Or...I guess that was _my_ drink I spilled...you can send me the dry-cleaning bill. That was total clumsiness on my part."

Mitchell raised a silent eyebrow at Lane who looked back with surprise. _Tonight?_

"That's all right. I'll bill it to my bosses," Lane said getting the confirmation. "It may not even be ruined. That was what? White wine?"

"Yeah...it _was_. You sure I can't make up for that?"

"For all of that, it was probably not entirely _your_ fault, was it?" Lane asked, jerking his head toward the group.

"Probably not...but I _was_ the one who tripped. I am sorry."

"Don't be. No harm done...nothing permanent anyway. I was just about to get my inebriated friend back to our hotel anyway. He'd probably have done worse to me if I let him stay any longer."

Mitchell crafted a convincing drunk look on his face, smiling blearily at the man.

"In fact, if you could give me a hand, that would be great."

Some people refused, some couldn't. This tactic didn't work all the time, but they both could see it. This guy wanted to do something to make up for his tumble.

"Yeah, I can do that. Just let me ditch my..._friends_." He grinned good-naturedly at Lane, showing that he was used to the treatment and didn't mind it, and then hurried over, obviously telling them what he was going to do...and, by the protests, he was also saying that he wasn't coming back. Even better. They could have dealt with an expectation of return. They had before, but it was so much better when they didn't have to.

Mitchell, in his role of drunkard, began to try standing. He wobbled, falling against Lane and then reeling backward, caught, as he had known he would be, by their new...friend.

"Whoa, this way is the exit. How about we walk forward?" he said bracingly. Lane took one arm while the man took the other and helped the weaving Mitchell toward the door.

"Make sure he doesn't barf on your shoes, McGee!" Tony shouted after the trio.

McGee. Hmmm...last name basis only? Interesting. Some people were like that, but mostly athletes. This...McGee...was not an athlete, but was plainly used to being addressed that way. Very interesting...especially because he used first names, not last names, himself.

"I'd be more worried if I were with _you_, Tony!"

Together, they reached the street.

"You have a car?"

"No, we're actually just across the street here, if you could give me a hand. I don't think Rachel would forgive me if I let him embarrass himself _too_ badly."

The man...McGee smiled and continued to brace the mumbling and sagging Mitchell on their trek, across the street, into the hotel with the conveniently unmanned front desk (although there would have been an easy solution had the clerk been there), to the elevator. Mitchell was enjoying himself. He usually did. He liked being the drunk...because, in actual fact, he'd _never_ been drunk, not once in his life. He enjoyed a good scotch as much as any other guy, but he'd never exceeded his limits. Lane had asked him once why that was, and he had credited Bill Cosby's sketch on drinking. In fact, that was where he had picked up his skills on _acting_ drunk...so he claimed, anyway.

The elevator reached the top floor. (Fewer people to overhear.)

"How much farther? I think he's gone boneless."

Lane laughed easily in spite of his growing excitement. This would be great. Mitchell's idea was perfect. They always worked better after one of these nights. It made him feel like he could take on the world.

"Just over here."

"All right. You want me to take him while you get your key?"

Lane nodded. He was being so helpful...so helpful. The complete shock that would take the place of the tolerant and semi-exasperated smile on his face was almost better than what came after. Mitchell cleverly maneuvered himself around to Tim's left side, having noticed his handedness, and effectively entangled his left arm, leaving him with his weaker hand free.

"If you could just get him to his bed, that would be great."

"Sure." He and the "drunk" Mitchell lurched toward the bed and Lane closed the door behind them. He set his card, his wallet, his watch...his wedding ring. He set them all on the side table and then walked over to the bed.

Suddenly, Mitchell made the shift from a man who'd had one too many...to captor. Lane got one good look at the face, young-looking, wide-eyed with the shock that was so...exciting. Then, Mitchell used the element of surprise, the man seemed frozen with that shock, and pinned him to the bed.

Lane turned out the lights.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was in a room on the top floor. It was a relatively high-quality hotel. The walls were soundproofed, although, if anyone had wanted to, they could have heard the screaming. It was loud enough to be heard through the door. There were occasional thumps. A lamp broke in the struggle...but it took mere minutes for the screams to fade to nothing, minutes for the sound of screaming to be replaced by business-like silence.

Mere minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A nightmarish whirl of faces, twisted with evil intent, manic with aroused glee, roamed through his mind. An experience that...that was too horrific to be real. It had just been a nightmare, a bad dream...that was all. He'd open his eyes and be...

Tim opened his eyes, and found that he was lying flat on his back...in a strange room. ...and he was naked. He closed his eyes again. Darkness. Let the darkness come back. Anything was preferable to...to staring at the ceiling. To...remembering.

_Oh, please. This isn't real. This didn't happen._ He squeezed his eyes shut ever more tightly...until lights flashed around behind his eyelids. _No, no, no, no..._ He didn't move because movement would remind him of... He took a deep gasping breath and, for a terrifying moment, couldn't let it out, couldn't breathe, couldn't...

_No. No, that didn't happen. No, that couldn't have happened._

His mind supplied the sickening memories which gave lie to his thoughts. The press of the bodies, the restraint, the attacks...and his utterly unwilling response. It was...

_No!_

Suddenly, he felt sick, nauseous. He felt soiled, unclean...damaged. He began to sweat and his breath came out in short spurts. The bile began to rise up the back of his throat and he tried to sit up, tried to run to wherever a bathroom might be...but he couldn't run. As he tried to sit up, he found he could barely move...

...and so he puked on the bed, on himself. Even after there was nothing left in his stomach, he continued to retch as the moments replayed inside his mind.

_Fighting...but he's too weak. Outnumbered. Being beaten into submission._

His abdomen ached with more than just the strain of vomiting. It ached from the attack, from the savagery of it. The cold, methodical savagery.

_Feeling his clothes being torn from his body, feeling...feeling them touch him._

As he retched, he began to cry, to sob, to scream almost as loudly as he had during the attack.

_It wasn't happening. Even while it happened, he couldn't believe it. The violation of his body, the...wanton destruction of his...his _self_, his identity. _

His mind seemed too full of each individual moment of what he had endured. Even as he jammed his hands against his eyes, trying to stave off the repetition of the attack, hours after it had happened, he remembered.

_They laughed. They laughed at him, laughed with triumph at their conquest, laughed at his submission. ...then, they switched places...then, they switched places again._

Then, he jumped as his phone started ringing. His phone? No, not _his_ phone, the one on the table. He looked at it...afraid. He didn't know why, but he reached out to answer it, thinking that maybe this would make what he remembered a lie. He couldn't make his voice work, but he picked up the receiver.

"_Good morning."_

At the voice, he felt ill again and fell back into the memories of the night before, hearing their voices, the laughter, the...

"_Thank you for your services. Feel free to stay in the room as long as you want. It's paid up to the end of the day and we put a do not disturb; so no one will bother you. Take your time."_

He couldn't let the phone go. He wanted to throw it. He wanted to scream into it, to shout out his pain, but he couldn't make a sound.

"_...take your time. I hope you enjoyed yourself as much as we did. You sure seemed to."_

Then, the phone clicked off. Somehow, he was never sure how, he managed to drop the phone and drag himself off the bed and to the bathroom just in time to retch into the toilet. After the spasm passed, he slumped off the toilet seat and to the space between the toilet and the bathtub. He didn't know how long he lay on the floor, how long he tried to make sure he continued breathing, how long he tried to pretend that he didn't know what the voice had meant.

After a while he sat up, groaning, and looked at himself. He was bruised. His wrists were chafed and raw. He couldn't bear to look beyond that. He couldn't bear to _know_ what was beyond that...but he did know. He could feel it.

Suddenly, the soiled feeling returned and he pulled himself into the bathtub and turned on the water, as hot he could stand...hotter. He had to get...to get..._them_ off him. He crouched under the streaming water, not even bothering to close the shower curtain. The typical hotel soaps and shampoos were there. He grabbed them and began to wash himself, head to toe. He did it once...and then again...and then again. He washed his hair, using all of the shampoo in the little bottle. He washed his body, scrubbing at his wrists until they bled. Scrubbing his legs, the bruised parts of his hips and thighs. Every inch...almost. There were parts he couldn't bear to touch. ...but he had to get rid of those men...even after five washings, he still felt dirty. The little bar of soap was a mere sliver. The tears were streaming incessantly down his cheeks and the events of the night kept replaying in his head in a steady stream, the laughter louder than the water pouring over him.

Then, he heard a phone. He jumped, startled by the sound. ...it was his this time. He couldn't answer it. He couldn't. No.

Slowly, he sank to his knees and then fell forward onto his face. The water continued to cascade over him as he slowly drew himself into a ball, rocking back and forth, lightly thumping his head against the tub as he relived, yet again, the horror. Even the physical pain of the attack was nothing compared to the horror he felt at having experienced it.

His phone began to ring again. It wouldn't stop.

_They wouldn't stop..._

He didn't move to answer it.

_He couldn't move..._

All he could do was wrap his arms around himself.

_They held him down..._

The phone stopped ringing. ...and then started again.

_They finished once only to start again..._

It never stopped.

_They never stopped..._

He ached from the attack. His head spun unpleasantly and his whole body throbbed. But most of all, he cried from the agony in his mind.

_This doesn't happen to men. It doesn't. It's something horrible that happens to women. Men don't... they can't..._

Finally, the phone stopped ringing.

_I have to tell someone. I have to report this._ The thought rose up through the miasma of his brain. The federal agent knew that crimes had to be reported. His phone stopped ringing and he got out of the shower, finally feeling like he could walk. He warily entered the room, body aching, dreading saying the words out loud. For the moment, however, he knew what he had to do. His clothes were everywhere. Torn. Bloody. Mute witnesses of what had been done to him. He could barely bring himself to _touch_ them, knowing whose hands had touched them last, and knowing what those hands had done to him. But he managed. He picked up the phone and dialed. He called Metro, not 911. It wasn't an emergency. The men were long gone now.

The automatic voice on the phone nearly undid him, but with hands shaking ever more violently, he navigated until he got to a real person.

"_How can I help you?" _a bored voice asked.

"I...I'd like...to report a crime," Tim whispered.

"_What crime?" _The voice still sounded bored, unconcerned. Uncaring.

"I..." It was much too difficult to say it out loud, to admit to it. It would make it real. "I...think I was...was...r-r-raped," he said, stumbling over the word he didn't want to say.

"_What?"_

"I...I was raped," he said, stumbling only slightly that time.

"_Excuse me?" _The voice sounded skeptical.

_He doesn't believe me,_ Tim thought. _It doesn't happen to people like me. I must have really wanted it. That's what he's thinking. My body did. I felt it. It..._ He couldn't say the words again, couldn't deal with the skepticism he'd heard in the voice, couldn't face the thoughts in his head. He hung up and dropped his phone onto the floor. He followed it down and began to cry again, kneeling beside the bed almost in an attitude of prayer. ...but the last time he had knelt it had _not_ been in prayer. ...and he wasn't praying this time either. Although he desperately wanted this to have never happened, every inch of him knew it had.

His phone started ringing again. Without thinking, he reached out to answer it.

There was no chance even to say hello.

"_Finally, Probie! It's about time. You're in big trouble, McGee," _Tony said. _"Never be unreachable, remember?"_

"What?" Tim asked, swallowing his tears. Somehow, there was no question of telling Tony. No chance of it happening. He couldn't. He wouldn't ever say those words again.

"_What did you do last night, McGee? Read those guys a long bedtime story?"_

Tim didn't think he could feel any more horrified but he was wrong. He dropped his phone and scrambled painfully for the trashcan. Weakly, he began to retch into it, bringing up little but causing himself more pain as his bruised abdomen clenched. He was crying now for more than one reason and he wanted only to close his eyes and disappear. ...but he dragged himself back to the phone. He could hear Tony shouting his name.

"Sorry," he whispered, knowing that the tears were apparent.

"_What's up, McGee? Besides your breakfast, obviously."_

"Just...not feeling well, Tony," Tim managed.

"_Where are you? I'm at your place, but you obviously aren't."_

Tim looked around the room. He took in the broken lamp, lying in pieces, the bloody and vomit-covered sheets...and he knew he couldn't say it again. He only wanted to forget...because it couldn't really happen to people like him. It couldn't happen to men. He was a federal agent. He should have known better. It would be only justice that something...something bad had happened, that...

_...hands, holding him down, binding his wrists...he couldn't even try to defend himself..._

"_Probie?" _Tony's voice broke into his recollection. _"Probie, you okay?"_

"Just...just sick, Tony. I went to...the ER. That's why I'm not...not home. That's why." He swallowed back the tears.

"_Well, where are you? I'll give you a ride home before I head back."_

"No! No, I'm taking a taxi. Don't bother. I just need...some time. I'll be fine on Monday. Monday, I'll be fine."

"_Well, that's not going to be of much help today, McGee. You sure you can't suck it up and come in?"_

Tim felt as though he was going to _throw_ up again, not _suck it up_.

"No, no, Tony. No, I can't. I really, really can't. I'm sorry."

"_Okay, okay. I don't really want you throwing up all over me anyway. ...but you owe me one for telling Gibbs you're sick. Got that?"_

Tim hung up. He hung up and threw the phone across the room. Then, he sank to the floor and lay there in a fetal position, smelling the disgusting sour smell of vomit and feeling a sense of being smothered by the room.

_I have to get out of here,_ he thought. He got up, feeling the strain on his beaten and violated body. He went back to the bathroom and checked to make sure there was nothing visible. His clothes looked decidedly worse for the wear and if anyone looked at him closely, they would notice the rip here, the blood there. He couldn't hide it all. The abrasions on his wrists were particularly livid, but he could hide them. The one on the right wrist he could cover with his watch, even though that hurt. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as...

_...he knew, somehow, what was coming, even though he couldn't believe it, and he fought, albeit weakly, against the arms that held him down, against the body coming down on top of him... So heavy..._

...he was back on the floor, tears on his cheeks. Trying not to think, he stood up again and began to gather the things which had been thrown so violently around the room. His watch. His phone. His wallet. They hadn't taken anything. ...almost nothing.

He couldn't find one of his socks. He searched and searched, but it was gone.

He gave up and finally pulled on his shoe over his bare foot. He drew himself up as straight as he could and walked to the door.

Tim stared at the door for ten minutes. He didn't want to walk out and have everyone see him, have everyone know...

_...how many times they switched places, he didn't know. He tried to struggle, but he never could get away and after a while, he just stopped trying to fight and let it happen, over and over and..._

...he was leaning against the door, holding the knob as if his life depended on it. He felt sick again and his entire body seemed to be throbbing in time to that awful, awful rhythm. He had to stay motionless for about ten more minutes before he felt able to stand on his own. He turned the knob and stepped back out into the world that somehow still existed outside the horror that now reigned preeminent in his head and passed beyond the agony and disgust that controlled his body.

That first step into the hallway was probably the hardest, but at least it was empty. The lobby was not, and Tim had to gather every shred of strength he possessed not to hunch his shoulders and sneak out. He expected someone to call to him at any moment, to reveal the secret he was hiding. He finally reached the street...and still more people. Not too many yet but enough. He frantically flagged a taxi and got in.

"Where to?"

"Silver Spring," Tim said, trying not to look at the man driving.

"You okay?"

"No. I'm not feeling well. You'll want to get there fast...and it's probably better if I keep quiet."

That guaranteed a fast, quiet ride, with the exception of the verification of his address as they got closer, and Tim was grateful for it. He had no desire to talk to anyone, least of all another stranger.

"Here we are."

Tim nodded, paid a generous tip and got out. He would have run if he had felt able. As it was, he walked, trying not to limp, trying to stay upright, trying not to cry. He was glad Tony wasn't there still.

He looked at the clock when he got into his apartment. Eleven in the morning. Fewer than twelve hours since...since...

_No. Nothing more. That's all there is. Nothing happened. Forget it. It will go away. It will stop. You can forget. You have to forget. It didn't happen._

Tim looked down at his body, at the clothes he was wearing. _They_ had touched those clothes. They had pulled them off...shoes, first. Watch.

_...He was pressed into the pillow, face first as his arms were wrenched around, freeing the jacket. He tried to struggle, tried to fight them..._

No. No. No. Tim ran into his bedroom, pulling off the clothes almost as violently as his attackers had, pulling them off, popping buttons in his need to free himself from their grasp. He vaguely heard the faint clattering as the buttons hit the floor. He pulled off his watch, and threw it against the wall, taking a fierce satisfaction when the face cracked. He pulled them all off and, stark naked, he shoved them into a bag, throwing it under his bed...out of sight, out of mind. He then rushed into the bathroom and got into the shower again, turning on the water and then, he scrubbed and scrubbed himself. He scrubbed himself raw and still felt polluted. Diluted blood dripped from the abrasions on his wrists, turning pink as it ran down the drain.

Still, he couldn't get the images from his mind. There was no soap he could apply to his brain to get rid of them and he began to cry again, feebly rubbing at his body, trying to get rid of the memory of their hands all over him.

_No, forget it. Let it go. It doesn't matter. It didn't happen. It didn't happen. It didn't happen._

...but, no matter how matter how many times he said it, no matter how often he tried to deny it, his mind insisted on being honest.

_I was raped._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_Monday morning..._

Tim finally turned off the shower. There were now places on his body that he'd literally rubbed all the skin away in his efforts to make himself clean. ...but it wasn't working. He felt as though there were flaming hand prints all over him...sticking to him...burning into his skin...

He stood in the bathtub, just breathing and trying not to feel sick again. It hurt when he had to go to the bathroom. He had actually seen blood this morning, but he tried to ignore it because...

_...again...and again...he pushed against them. He tried to get away..._

...he was leaning against the wall of the shower, hyperventilating, trying not to let the memories overwhelm him...as they had all weekend long. Even when he slept, he became lost in reliving it.

He took a deep breath, forced himself to look elsewhere than his body and got out of the tub. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stood there, waiting to dry.

_There was a lull. He thought it was over. He thought they'd let him go. ...but no..._

"Stop it," he said to himself. "Stop it. Stop."

Eventually, he walked into his bedroom to get dressed. He stared vacantly at the closet. Even though he couldn't see it, the bag of the evidence of the weekend was in his head and he stood, wrapped in his towel, staring at his clothes. Jethro padded in and nudged his hand. Tim shied away from the touch until he realized it was only his dog. He looked down, past the bruises, past the blood.

"I have to get dressed, Jethro. I have to go to work. I don't want to."

He didn't want to face the world again. As bad as this weekend had been, he didn't want to face the others. He didn't want to...

_...keep him down. He almost got free, just once. He tore his hand free and grabbed...for something, anything that would save him. Nothing could..._

He was kneeling on the floor, Jethro nudging him and whining at almost the same pitch as he was.

It was a long time before he could get up and get dressed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Are you certain he was sick?" Ziva asked.

"I'm pretty sure I recognize the sound of someone barfing, Ziva. Lots of practice, you know," Tony replied. "He thought he'd be fine by today."

"He is late. Remember what happened last time he said he was sick. He was only pretending."

"And he had to use an email because he couldn't do it convincingly on the phone. He is either very good at making the sound of someone throwing up or else he was genuinely sick, Ziva."

The elevator doors opened with their customary ding. Tim walked into the bullpen...but slowly...and seeming strangely hesitant.

"You do not look very good, McGee," Ziva said. "Are you sure you are recovered?"

Tim only shrugged without answering and continued to his desk, dropping his bag beside it and then plopping himself down into the seat and hiding his face behind the monitor.

"McGee."

No response. Ziva gave Tony a look and then walked over to Tim's desk. He was already typing.

"McGee, are you all right?"

Tim raised his eyes to Ziva before dropping them again.

"Yes. I'm fine, Ziva. Thanks for asking."

Tony stood up and walked over to join them. He hovered.

"Ziva's right, Probie. You're not looking so hot." He leaned over the monitor and squinted at Tim's face.

Tim stood up, not quickly, but abruptly and almost seemed to back away.

"I'm fine, guys. Just leave it alone. I'm sure there's work to do."

"There always is," Gibbs said, coming into the bullpen. "McGee, you're behind. Catch up. Tony, Ziva..."

"Awaiting the results from Ms. Scuito, Boss. She should be getting them any moment now."

Tim didn't sit down until Tony and Ziva moved away from his desk, but then he began to work again. He hadn't said anything more, hadn't acknowledged Gibbs' order in any way. Tony was about to comment on it but Abby called up from the lab.

"Guys! Get down here!" Abby shouted gleefully, spinning around on her chair.

"On our way, Abbs," Gibbs said and walked to the elevator, followed by Tony and Ziva...but not Tim.

"McGee, are you going to join us?"

Tim looked up. "Just..." He stopped, looked at his computer and then back at Gibbs. "...yeah. Sorry, Boss." He stood and stepped onto the elevator.

"You're not contagious, are you, McGee?" Tony asked, poking him playfully on the shoulder.

Tim edged away until he was right against the wall of the elevator and didn't answer.

"Hey, Probie!" Tony said and lightly tapped him on the head.

"Don't do that, Tony," Tim said, softly.

"What's up?"

"I don't like that. I don't think I'm contagious. Just not in the mood for you...doing that," Tim said, never shifting his gaze from straight ahead, although his body was stiff as a board.

The elevator dinged and Abby was standing right there, bouncing in her excitement.

"Hey, McGee!" she said, happily. "How are you feeling? Any better?"

"Yeah. Some."

She nodded and flitted back to the lab...well, as much flitting as a person wearing clodhoppers could manage. The others followed, not noticing Tim lagging behind. She began to wax eloquent as she told them of the fibers she'd managed to isolate and how they were from such and such specific fabric which was put only in such and such a model of car from such and such a year.

"Hello, up there? Abby? Anyone?" Jimmy's voice sounded much too calm after Abby's typical mania.

"What is it, Palmer?" Gibbs asked.

"Dr. Mallard wants you down here. He said he's found something on that other body we just got yesterday."

"On our way. Good work, Abbs."

"Thanks, Gibbs!"

They turned to leave and noticed that Tim was already gone.

"That's weird. McGoo's vanished." Tony waved his arm around in the space where Tim had been. "Did he stay for the whole spiel?" he asked.

"He was there, Tony. Maybe he's just eager to get caught up."

"He did not seem _eager_, Abby," Ziva said. "Perhaps he is off his kilt from his sickness, yes?"

"Okay, I'm missing that one completely," Tony admitted.

"Off kilter," Gibbs said. "Get a move on."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim stood at the door to Autopsy, just beyond sensor range, unsure if he should go in. He knew he couldn't ride on the elevator anymore, not with them on it. He had been so close to freaking out, to feeling them again...to...

_Knock it off, Tim. It's over. It never happened._ He stared at his distorted reflection and then jumped backward, repressing a groan of pain, as the door opened.

"Timothy! You do look as though you were ill. Where are the others?"

"I must have left them behind," Tim said, taking a step backward, away from Ducky. He could feel his body begin to throb at the proximity.

"You look a bit pale, Timothy. Are you sure you're up to this?"

"I'm fine, Ducky."

"Are you certain? If you are still sick, you can take another day."

"No, Ducky. I'm fine."

The elevator doors opened.

"There he is! Hey, McGee, found you! You're it!" Tony announced.

"What is your hurry, McGee? The body will still be there," Ziva said.

"I know that."

"You could have held the elevator," Tony said.

"I took the stairs."

"Oh."

"You have something, Ducky?" Gibbs asked, looking sideways at Tim but saying nothing.

"Yes, Gibbs. I do. If you'll come inside." He turned and led the troops into Autopsy.

There was a body, a woman, laying on the table. She had been beautiful once...before she had been beaten to death. There were bruises covering a large percentage of her body. Tim stared at her, horrified in a way he hadn't felt in years.

_She was probably so scared when this happened to her._

"...and you're right, Jethro. The cause of death was most definitely strangulation. You can see here, the bruises on the side of her neck clearly indicate manual strangulation with a fracture of the hyoid bone and..."

Ducky's voice faded away as Tim stared, unnoticed, at the body. Each bruise represented another assault, a desecration of a person who did not deserve it. She was so young, too young to end up cut open on Ducky's autopsy table. Tim's stomach began to churn. Then, he heard it...

"...and just like the other poor girl, she was definitely raped, quite violently, probably in the midst of the...good gracious, Timothy, are you all right?"

Tim felt the breakfast he'd managed to force down an hour or so ago begin to rise. He looked at Ducky for one frantic moment before whirling around and running, unerringly for the trash can where he heaved painfully, forgetting the presence of everyone else, forgetting everything but the pain...

_...they never let go of his wrists. Their hands chafed them, sweating with the effort of holding him down, gripping so tightly that the circulation was cut off. He pulled and pulled against them, against the knees pressing into his shoulders as one held him down while the other..._

...a hand on his arm and he rejoined the present with a panicked lurch away from the support.

"Timothy, what's wrong?"

Tim tried to say that he was okay but the closeness, the suffocating closeness of everyone in the room, pressing in on him, touching him. It made him fall to his knees as he began to vomit again. His throat was on fire and his body ached with the effort.

"All right, all right, Timothy. Get it all out."

Tim kept his head bent over the garbage can, even though the smell reminded him nauseatingly of the hotel room. He was trying to hide the tears.

"Finished?"

"So...not cured?" Tony asked.

Gibbs slapped the back of his head.

"Thanks, Boss."

"I'm okay," he said, finally able to gasp the words out, in the middle of convulsive swallowing.

"You think you can stand up?"

Tim brushed away the touch and managed to get to his feet. The world spun and Tim felt himself wobbling. Immediately, another hand was on him. He pulled himself together by sheer will and pulled away.

"I'm fine...now. I'm okay." He blinked a few times, breathing heavily, feeling weak and trembling.

"Maybe you should lie down for a while, Timothy," Ducky suggested. "You do not appear to be as recovered as you think you are."

Tim managed to paste a weak smile onto his face and let out a weaker laugh. "Apparently...not, Ducky."

"Go on, McGee. You're not going to be any help right now," Gibbs said.

"Yeah, you'd give Abby a run for her money on paleness," Tony said.

"Okay," Tim said, nodding in capitulation. He began to walk, but he wobbled again. Instantly, more hands on him and he pulled away. "I can walk."

"You don't seem to be doing a good job of it," Tony said.

"I don't need your help, Tony," Tim said.

"Let us help you, McGee," Ziva said. "You look ready to fall over." She touched his arm and when he didn't reject her touch, it became a supporting clasp. "I will go with you and then return."

Tim closed his eyes. The fear, the disgust wasn't as bad...and he knew he needed the help. His legs felt like blocks of jello...the new blue raspberry flavor. His mind lazily followed that train of thought. It had been new for years now. How long could something stay new?

"Okay, Ziva."

She nodded encouragingly and nearly pulled him out of Autopsy. As they made their way slowly down the hall, she looked at him. He could feel her gaze...analyzing.

"Are you still sick or was it the body?"

"I don't know. I wasn't really listening to Ducky," he said. He wondered why he couldn't seem to get his voice above a whisper.

"Do we ever?" she returned with a smile and then pushed the button. "Would you like to go to Abby's lab?"

"No. Too loud. I just...need some quiet." _Quiet in my head...so loud...too many things I remember._

"Very well. You can rest in one of the conference rooms. They should not be in use...and I will even put a 'do not disturb' sign up."

The doors opened, but Tim backed away and felt his stomach twisting again.

_...do not disturb...you have all day..._

This time, he was afflicted with dry heaves, just as painful, or moreso, but less messy. The spasm didn't last long, but Tim was nearly on the floor.

"Maybe you should go home, McGee," Ziva said, in concern. "You seem quite sick still."

"No. Just...just too much at once, I think. Give me a few...hours. I'll be okay."

"If you are sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. I'm sure." _Please, let me be sure..._

"Very well."

Ziva walked with him to a conference room and saw him lay down before leaving. Once she had closed the door, he sat up again, leaning forward, head in his hands.

He began to cry.

_Let it be over...let it never have begun..._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **One of the reviews I got mentioned Ziva's time in Somalia from her capture at the end of season 6. Because that would have a large impact on how she responds in this story, I felt an author's note was needed. I started writing this story _during_ season 6 (it's been a hard story to write and so I was very slow). The result of this is that Ziva hadn't ever been imprisoned during this story. So she's not going to react like someone who has been a prisoner. Think of this as happening more-or-less in mid-season 6 to get the right feel for things.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

It wasn't over. It had barely started.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The rest of Monday was uneventful...on the surface. Tim came out of the conference room a few hours later and he didn't throw up again. But he didn't seem...right. They all noticed. Gibbs seemed to realize that it was more than illness and in his usual way simply put Tim to work on things that weren't directly related to the case at hand. Tim was tracking emails, deciphering header information. Tim accepted the tasks without comment. In fact, he spoke very little for the rest of the day. He only responded to comments directed at him. Otherwise, he said nothing...and looked at no one.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Lane and Mitchell were involved in intense negotiations. They were going well...of course. At the end of every day, they gave each other the dorky high fives they had used ever since they'd first been teamed up. They would win. Of course. That was why they were always chosen for these assignments. They had an energy about them. It was infectious...much like their personalities. They were winners...and they knew it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

On Monday, they could chalk up Tim's strange reactions to his illness. It would be a stretch but it was possible. By Wednesday, however, with Tim acting as oddly as he had been on Monday, it was hard if not impossible to pass it off as lingering effects of his bug, whatever it had been...and Tim hadn't said. His behavior was not, on the surface, particularly different. He sought the company of Ziva and Abby over anyone else. He resented Tony's teasing. That was normal...but there was a different feeling attached to the resentment. Tim did what was asked of him without complaint...but without any other comment whatsoever. He began to huddle behind his monitor, saying nothing unless forced to. He was strangely distracted at times and he would have a momentary expression of...alarm. It was troubling to say the least.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee," Gibbs said, Friday morning. Tony and Ziva were out at a crime scene. Their rapist had struck again.

Tim looked up but he didn't say anything.

"McGee, what's wrong with you?"

Tim blinked at him, almost as if he didn't understand the question. He wasn't giving up any information, but Gibbs could see in his eyes how much he did not want to talk...particularly not to him.

"Nothing, Boss. Nothing is wrong with me."

Gibbs stood up and approached him. "Tell me, McGee. Something is wrong."

His phone rang and Gibbs cursed inwardly. Of all the times...

"What?"

"_Boss, we need you out here! Like...now!"_

"What is it, Tony?"

"_Remember our suspect? Remember how all the evidence pointed to him but we couldn't track him down?"_

Gibbs heard gunfire.

"_Well...he's here and...well, we could use the help."_

"On our way." Gibbs hung up. "Let's go. Ziva and Tony need backup."

Tim didn't respond other than to grab his gun. He followed Gibbs to the elevator and although he got on quickly, he stood as far from Gibbs as he possibly could. Gibbs noticed but decided there wasn't time for discussion at the moment. He made best possible speed for the address.

Ziva was crouched behind the stone wall of the house when they arrived. There were no bullets firing at the moment.

Gibbs and Tim ran over to the wall.

"Tony is inside. I have had no verbal communication. Taylor is most definitely armed. Tony was in the bedroom at the back of the house when I last spoke to him."

"Okay, you and McGee take the back."

"He may see."

"That's what I'm counting on."

Tim and Ziva went around the back. ...and as he had hoped, there was gunfire from inside the house. Gibbs tracked in on it and ran toward the sound when suddenly he heard Ziva shout.

"McGee, what do you think you are doing?"

He redoubled his pace. The gunfire stopped.

"McGee, stop."

He came charging into the house...and then to the back to find Tim standing over Lt. Taylor, finger on the trigger, ready to fire. He wasn't saying a word, but his expression was one of inarticulate rage. Ziva was standing behind him, gun ready but looking at a loss of what to do. She'd never seen him like this.

Gibbs had. Once. Years ago.

"McGee!"

Tony came down the hall, now that the bullets had stopped firing. He, too, had seen this side of Tim. Once.

"Step back, McGee."

Tim still said nothing...and he didn't move.

"McGee, let us arrest him. You have taken him down. He is now...at our mercy, yes?" Ziva said.

"Like...those g-girls were at _his_ mercy?" Tim asked, his voice strangled, almost unfamiliar after a week of near silence. "Sh-should we give him the s-s-same mercy he gave _them_? Is that what you want?"

"No, McGee," Ziva said, her voice soft. "No, I want him to be arrested and sent to prison."

"It's n-n-not en-n-nough."

"It has to be, McGee," Gibbs said. "It _has_ to be."

Abruptly, Tim stepped back...and then walked out of the house, away from them all, pushing by Ziva, angrily brushing away the hand she put on his arm. Gibbs nodded to her to cuff Taylor.

"Glad to see you guys, Boss. He had me cornered," Tony said as he watched Ziva haul Taylor, none too gently, to the car. "What happened?"

"I'd like to know that myself." He walked out of the house to where Tim was standing by a swing set. He was pushing the swing, nudging it into motion with his free hand.

Gibbs watched him for a moment and then strode over.

"McGee, what in the world do you think you were doing?"

No response. Gibbs grabbed Tim by the shoulders and turned him around. Tim backed away from him quickly until he ran into the frame and then turned back to the swing...but not before Gibbs caught the glistening of tears on his cheeks.

"Tim, what's wrong?"

Tim didn't look at him, but at least he answered. That had become rare enough. "He...he r-r-raped three women...he k-k-killed them. ...and you have to ask what's _wrong_?"

"You've seen things like this before, Tim."

"That doesn't m-m-make it any better."

"No. It doesn't, but why are you so angry about it this time?"

"Am I in trouble, Boss?"

"I'll have to report it. You could have gotten yourself killed. Maybe Tony or Ziva as well."

Tim nodded.

"You need a minute?"

There was a soft laugh. "Can I have t-t-two?"

"I'll give you five."

"Th-thanks, Boss." Tim never looked at him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You think McGee is a risk?" Vance asked.

"I'm not sure, to be honest. Ziva said he was creeping around the house with her when he suddenly broke from cover and ran to the door, firing as he went. She says it's a miracle he wasn't hit."

"What's caused this?"

"He seems to be taking this case very personally."

"Any connection to the victims?"

"None that I know of."

"Have you checked?"

"Yes. I have. So far as I know, McGee hasn't had any interaction with any of them."

"What do you want to do?"

"I'm going to keep my eye on him. Something is wrong. I just don't know what it is, and McGee's not telling. He insists that nothing is wrong."

"How long will you wait?"

"Hopefully not too long."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"All right. You have a deal."

Lane smiled in victory.

"We just _happen_ to have the contract drawn up," Mitchell said, smiling congenially.

"Of course. Just by chance, eh?"

"Of course. You ready to sign?"

"I've been authorized to do so."

"Great!"

In under five minutes, the meeting broke up, the contract in hand. After the representatives from the other company had left (with solemn handshakes), Lane and Mitchell looked at each other and then gave each other a triumphant high five.

"Yes!"

"Man, I'll be glad to get home. I'm missing Patsy."

"You like this, though."

"Oh, yeah. Wouldn't have missed..._any_ of it for the world."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Saturday.

Tim woke up in a sweat, curled into a painful ball on his bed, Jethro whimpering beside him. The pain wasn't going away. Every movement served to make him remember. Every second he relived it. He had come home and crawled into bed, not even undressing beyond taking off his shoes. He had pulled the blankets over his head. ...but blankets couldn't keep these terrors away.

_...the hand...almost caressing. The same hand that had so viciously hit him minutes before. It trailed down his arm._

Tim felt tears, felt the hands. He felt dirty again. Soiled. He needed to shower.

It was hard to get up. Hard to walk out. He felt as though every person could see him, could see what had...what had _not_ happened to him. He poked his head out and faced Jethro. If it weren't for his dog, he could just stay inside forever, but Jethro needed walking. He needed to get outdoors.

"Okay, Jethro. Okay. Just let me get...clean."

Showering wouldn't help. He knew that. It never did. It didn't matter how hard he scrubbed. It didn't matter how long he stood under the water. The hands were still all over him. All over...

_...the hand moved to his neck, gripping him until he bruised. They switched..._

Tim stood at his front door, Jethro nudging him to get him to move. Finally, he nodded.

"Okay. Okay. I can go. I can...I can." He opened the door and let Jethro's momentum pull him along.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Sunday.

_I don't want to go. I don't want to go to work tomorrow. I don't want to...I can't...but I have to._

Tim paced back and forth. He was too hot...and that only made the handprints burn as well. He still ached. Tony, Ziva, Abby, even Jimmy had all called at some point over the weekend, trying to talk, trying get him out. He wouldn't go. Instead, he stayed home, trying to do something...anything to get him thinking about...something else. But he couldn't. Everything he did was ruined. Everything thought led back to...

_...face down. He wondered if they'd smother him this time. He almost wanted that. Anything to...to end it. Anything._

He was on the floor, curled in a ball, hyperventilating, Jethro whining worriedly beside him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Monday.

"Am I coming, Boss?" Tim asked.

Tony and Ziva both looked back and forth, worried.

"Yeah, McGee. Come on. You up to it?"

Tim nodded, but he didn't look like he was. He actually looked ill.

"You sure, Probie?"

Tim didn't answer Tony. He grabbed his gear. Tony reached out to...whatever, and Tim gave him a glare...but nothing more.

When they got out to the truck, Tim climbed into the back without comment. Tony waited until Tim was out of earshot.

"Boss..."

"I know," Gibbs said. "Let's get going."

"Gibbs, are you sure that–?"

"No, Ziva. Get in the truck."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The sun was out. It was not too hot yet, but warm enough. ...but not warm enough to explain the sheen to Tim's skin as he began to shoot and sketch the scene.

"Tony, you take the inside. Think you can avoid a shooter this time?" Gibbs asked.

"Working on it, Boss," Tony said, smiling briefly. His eyes flicked to Tim.

Gibbs only nodded. Ziva was out front speaking with a witness. Gibbs went to join her.

"I've never heard a gun go off before," the woman was saying. "Well, I have on TV, but it's nothing like that. It's...different somehow."

"Perhaps because it is real," Ziva said, smiling.

"Maybe."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" Gibbs asked.

"No. I just heard the shots. Five of them. I looked out the window and saw someone running. I called you guys."

"Why us?"

"You're the Navy police. This is a Navy base. Who else would I call?"

Gibbs smiled. There was no fighting against logic. Ziva nodded to him, indicating that she would finish up. He was glad of it. That meant he could check on Tim...on his way in to help Tony, of course.

"How you doing, McGee?"

"Fine, Boss."

Gibbs didn't agree, but Tim was working, acting almost normally. Almost. He held back a sigh and turned to walk into the house. There was a soft clunk from behind him. He spun back around.

Just in time to see Tim crumple to a lifeless heap on the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Too many hands. On his arms, on his shoulders, on his forehead. Too many.

"No, I'm fine... please...stop..."

"Come on, McGee."

He was dazed, a bit confused. "No...let me...I'm fine...just..."

"You have a fever, McGee."

"No...fine...tired. Nothing wrong." Don't let them touch...get away...

"Give me a hand, Tony."

"We could..."

"No, I'll just drive him. We're not far."

Please...no...

"I can finish..."

"Just sit there."

"Take off the jacket. He must be boiling."

"No!" He pushed against the hands.

His vision kept flickering in and out, but that focused him, just for a moment.

"No." He couldn't get rid of them all.

"You're going to the hospital, McGee. No more arguments."

Tim realized, suddenly, that he was sitting in a car. Where had the car come from? They'd taken the truck. He shivered a little and then shuddered as he felt Gibbs slide into the driver's seat...much too close. He wedged himself against the passenger door, feeling...

_...hands twisting around his wrists. It had happened so many times...so many times...so tight..._

Tim swallowed.

"You going to throw up?"

Tim shook his head.

"You sure?"

Tim nodded.

"Okay."

Tim wanted to get out of the car. He wanted to run, but he knew he couldn't. He had no energy for it, and the car was already moving. It was too late to run.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim felt fully recovered from his fall after the ninety minutes he and Gibbs spent waiting to be seen by a doctor. Fully recovered meant...

"Boss, I feel fine now. I don't need to see a doctor. I'm fine." He couldn't look _at_ Gibbs, but he could at least speak to him.

"McGee, you passed out. You freaked out at the house last week." He reached out a hand and Tim pulled back. "Dang it, McGee, I'm not going to hurt you. ...and that's another thing wrong. You want to tell me what's going on with you?"

Tim chanced a glance at Gibbs...a momentary fearful glance. He knew that Gibbs wouldn't hurt him (beyond an occasional headslap). He _knew_ that. He knew that Tony wouldn't. He knew that...but when he looked at them, he didn't really see them. He saw...

_...a face grinning with anticipation, hands on his waist, holding him down..._

He leaned forward and away. He could usually hide the worst of the memories.

"Agent Timothy McGee?"

The voice, the male voice, startled him back into the present, forcing him to lift his head in reaction to his name. He saw a doctor, with a kind, if distracted, expression on his face. He looked down at his clipboard and then up at Tim again.

"You're Timothy McGee?"

Tim felt his mind seize up. He wouldn't, he _couldn't_ be examined by this man. He couldn't allow this doctor to...to touch him, to get near him. Gibbs was bad enough...not this man who looked so kind.

"McGee, come on. I don't want to have to wait for another hour," Gibbs said, standing.

Feeling powerless, Tim stood and followed, but he didn't want to. His body started to throb with remembered fear, with the pain that still plagued him, even a week later.

"If you could just wait here, sir."

"Agent Gibbs. NCIS," Gibbs said, looking at Tim and seeing his expression at going into a room alone with the doctor.

"I promise that we'll take good care of him, Agent Gibbs, but we do have a policy of patient confidentiality. I'll need you to wait." He was sympathetic but firm.

Gibbs saw that there was no fighting it and sat down to wait.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent McGee, if you'll just have a seat on the table there." Dr. Brown finally put down his clipboard and met Tim's terrified gaze. What he saw made him pause. He made no attempt to approach Tim but instead, turned back to his clipboard and scanned it. He frowned. "I'm going to get one of my colleagues to examine you. She's a very good doctor. Just take a seat and I promise it won't be a long wait."

Tim only nodded...and didn't sit.

Dr. Bowen walked back out of the room. "Agent Gibbs, has your agent been...the victim of a mugging...or some other form of assault recently? Perhaps on the job?"

"No. Why?"

"Because he is, quite frankly, afraid of me. Not nervous as some people are around doctors, but genuinely afraid. I'm going to get one of my female colleagues, a specialist, to examine him. While there is nothing in his chart to indicate recent trauma, his reaction most certainly does."

"Nothing that he's mentioned...but he has been different the last few days."

"Nothing in his past?"

"No."

"All right. It shouldn't be more than a few minutes...and she's worth the wait." Dr. Bowen continued down the hall. He was more convinced than ever that he was right, and if so...he definitely should not be the one to examine Tim. He knocked on a door with a nameplate reading "Dr. Jeana Warren." He knocked.

"Come in!"

He poked his head inside the door. "Jeana, do you have a minute? A few minutes?" He smiled. "Maybe longer?"

Dr. Warren grinned. "What do you want, Brian?"

"I'd like you to do the exam on a patient."

"Why? I'm not even on rotation today."

"I think he needs your expertise."

"He?"

"Yes."

"He said anything?"

Dr. Bowen shook his head. "No, but he's terrified of me and there's just something about him. I really think you should examine him."

Dr. Warren considered for only a second or two. "All right. I have the time. Where?"

"Exam room 4. Here's his chart."

"Okay." Dr. Warren walked to the room, took note of the man sitting anxiously in the hallway and stepped inside. Her patient was standing nervously to one side...as close as he could get to being in the corner without being obvious about it. He noticeably relaxed when he saw that she was female.

"Agent McGee?"

He nodded.

"I'm Dr. Jeana Warren. I'm going to be examining you today. Why don't you have a seat?"

He didn't want to. She could see that, but he sat on the table. She smiled kindly.

"All right. What brings you here?"

"My boss," he said, and unexpectedly smiled. It removed the pain from his eyes, if only for a moment.

"Really? What happened? He knock you out?"

The smile didn't fade, although it flickered a bit. "No. I passed out at a crime scene. I guess he decided I needed to be cured of whatever ailed me...so I can work better. I think I might have broken the camera. I'm sure it'll come out of my paycheck."

"I can understand that. I'm always being told that I'm not working hard enough. All right. So..." she sat on a stool and rolled it slightly toward him. He tensed a little but not much. "Let's just have a little chat. I'd like to get more of a sense of what happened. You passed out?"

"Yes."

"Any dizziness? Vertigo beforehand?"

"Not really. I just...things went black. I saw black spots and then...they kind of spread and I blacked out."

"How long?"

"Not long at all. I...I think it was only for a few seconds. I was standing when I blacked out. I was on the ground when I woke up...and Gibbs hadn't got to me yet. He was only about twenty feet away."

"How did you feel when you woke up?"

"I...I wasn't sure what was going on. I..." Tim looked away. "...I think I lost some time."

"But you were awake?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'm just going to do a basic physical." She picked up a thermometer and gestured. "Stick this under your tongue." Tim did so willingly enough. "I'm also going to need to take your pulse."

Tim's eyes widened and he shook his head although he didn't try to fight or even remove the thermometer.

"Agent McGee, it won't hurt. It's just to get your stats; so I can check them against your regular vital signs."

Still, Tim shook his head and stared at the floor.

"Agent McGee, your wrist, please." Dr. Warren kept her voice kind even as she made it an order.

Finally, he held out his left wrist. She rolled up his sleeve and stopped when she saw the bright red weeping wounds. He had done nothing to treat them, she could see. Rather, the abrasions seemed to have been reopened more than once and had become badly infected.

"Will I see the same thing on your other wrist, Agent McGee?" she asked.

Tim didn't look up at her, but he nodded.

Dr. Warren knew where this was going and she didn't like it, but she had to go where Tim so obviously didn't want to go. She kept silent while taking his pulse. She pulled out the thermometer and took note of the level: 100.2 degrees. Not too serious, but bad enough. It would just compound the problems now staring them both in the face.

"Would you take off your shirt, please, Agent McGee?"

Tim had not looked up at her since revealing his wrist. She didn't want to make him more afraid than was necessary, but that one glimpse was enough to tell her than she needed to see more. There was no movement for a moment, but she didn't push. She just waited. He had admitted one thing. He'd admit to more if she gave him time.

With slow, halting movements, Tim took off his jacket and then began to undo the buttons with shaking hands. He still would not look at her. He wasn't looking at himself either, though. His eyes were focused on the floor between them. Carefully, he pulled his arms out of the sleeves and allowed the shirt to fall to the table, exposing his torso. It was only her years of experience with this sort of thing that kept Dr. Warren from feeling sickened by what she saw. Tim had been beaten and restrained. There were bruises on his arms, just below his neck, on his shoulders. His chest and abdomen were also bruised.

"Agent McGee, this doesn't stop at your waist, does it."

Again, Tim shook his head.

"Agent McGee...were you raped?"

Tim whispered something inaudible, shook his head and didn't look up.

"I didn't hear you."

"It doesn't...c-c-can't happen to men." The comparison between his voice now and his voice when he'd first talked to her was terrible. It was almost like a different person was speaking.

"Yes, it can. It does...far too often, it does," she said with a sadly understanding smile. "Men can be raped. Men _are_ raped. I will ask again: Were you raped, Agent McGee?"

For a long moment, it seemed as though Tim wasn't even breathing but then, finally, he nodded, his head dropping even lower, his shoulders hunching, his breath coming in shallow spurts.

"Did you report it?"

The bowed head shook.

"When did this happen?"

"...Friday..."

That didn't track with the level of infection she could see. "Three days ago?"

The head shook.

"You mean a week ago Friday?"

Nod.

"And you didn't tell anyone? No one at all?"

Shake.

"Agent McGee, I need to get an idea of your medical status. So...I have to ask you some very difficult questions. I'll try to make them yes or no and you can just nod or shake your head, understand?"

Nod.

"Good. I know this is going to be hard for you, but believe me when I say it's necessary."

Tim didn't move. His eyes closed.

"You were raped on Friday night?"

Nod.

"By a man?"

Nod and he seemed to grow even smaller.

"Was there more than one?"

Nod.

"How many?"

His hand came up slowly, showing two fingers.

"Did you know them? Were they people you had met before? Coworkers?"

The shake was quick and vehement...although he still would not lift his head.

"Did they both rape you?"

The hand dropped to the edge of the table and gripped it tightly as he nodded yet again.

"More than once?"

Nod.

"Do you know how many times?"

Shake.

"Was it oral or anal?"

No response and she knew why. It was a testing of the waters, to see how much explanation he could tolerate. None, currently.

"Was it oral?"

Shake.

"Anal, then?"

Nod.

"Every time?"

Nod. The other hand gripped the table until his hands became white, streaked with red, bordered by the infected abrasions on his wrists. Physical contact at this point would seem logical, but he was more than likely reliving it and based on the patterning of bruises, any contact would be taken as a renewal of the assault.

"Did they use condoms, Agent McGee?"

Hesitation. A long one, but then a nod.

"You're sure?"

Another nod.

"Agent McGee, have you had any pain beyond that from the beating?"

Nod.

"In your anal region?"

Tim leaned forward until it looked as though he was about to fall off the edge of the table. The trembling made his breathing audible.

...but he nodded again.

"Any bleeding in that area, particularly after defecation?"

Another nod.

"Agent McGee, we're going to need to do some blood tests. Even if they did use condoms, there's no guarantee that there might not have been...some sort of problem and it would be better if we could simply eliminate any worry about STDs."

Nod.

"I'm also going to need to perform an examination of your anus. It sounds like you suffered an anal fissure which has since become infected. This can be dangerous and there is also a risk of rectal damage. Now, this examination can be done by Dr. Bowen if you'd prefer to have a male–"

"NO!" It was the first time he'd spoken loudly and his terror was so acute that his head lifted and he shook his head, looking at her desperately.

"All right. That's fine. I'll need you to change into a gown and we can do a general physical examination to make sure there are no other injuries in need of medical attention. Is that all right?"

The emotion drained out of him almost immediately and his head dropped once more. He nodded.

"Now, there's one more question I need to ask you, Agent McGee...and this may be more difficult than any of the others."

No response.

"Can I report this to your boss?"

His head came up again, but he didn't make any sound at all, although his mouth opened.

"You're a federal law enforcement officer, Agent McGee, and I know you are aware of the need for crimes to be reported. However, you have the right _not_ to report if you wish. I can keep your injuries and your experience confidential if you want me to do so. If you would like me to explain it to your boss, I can make sure that he doesn't just charge in here and begin interrogating you."

To her surprise, Tim managed a small smile. "Good luck," he whispered.

"Tenacious, is he?"

"You have no idea."

"Do you want me to keep this confidential, Agent McGee?"

Tim's eyes began to wander around the room. She knew he was considering...even more than most rape victims, he probably knew all the complications of not reporting, of reporting, of delayed reporting. He was weighing his options. ...and she suspected that he wanted _someone_ to know, just so that he didn't have to deal with it on his own. His eyes wandered for a few minutes until finally, they settled...not on Dr. Warren, but on the floor again.

"He'll find out anyway," he said softly and then laughed. "He's like that. He always knows."

"Do you want me to tell him? You know what will come next if you do report this."

"D-Documentation."

"Yes."

Tim took a deep breath, probably the first since he'd entered the room.

He let it out in one word.

"Yes."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door opened. It seemed like forever and Gibbs stood up, showing more anxiety than was his wont.

"Agent Gibbs, I need to speak with you privately."

"About what?"

Dr. Warren smiled. "In private, Agent Gibbs. If you'll just step this way."

Gibbs followed her to a small room, just down the hall. As soon as the door was closed, he turned around.

"What's going on?"

"I have been authorized by Agent McGee to give you this information, but you have to promise you're going to stay here and listen to everything I have to say _before_ you go running off half-cocked as Agent McGee seems to think you will."

"What is it?"

"Will you listen to everything first?" she asked, seriously.

"Yes."

"Then, sit down, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs did so, only reluctantly. Dr. Warren sat down beside him.

"My name is Dr. Jeana Warren. I am a specialist at this hospital in psychiatry and also in traumatic injury. Over the last decade, however, my real specialty has been in treating patients who have been victims of assault."

Gibbs said nothing, but his mind was starting to go places it _didn't_ want to go.

Dr. Warren went there whether he was ready for it or not...and she said the words _no one_ wants to hear about someone for whom they care.

"Your agent was raped, Agent Gibbs."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"You can sit down, Agent Gibbs," Dr. Warren said, smiling slightly in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

Gibbs looked at her and realized that he was looking _down_ at her. He didn't even remember standing up. His mind was moving at warp speed through everything that had happened in the last week and was automatically correlating it with what he had just heard...and mentally headslapping himself for not thinking of this sooner.

"Agent Gibbs?"

He stared and realized he hadn't moved.

"He was afraid to be with us, me and Tony...even Ducky. He didn't want to be touched. He was so angry about the rape case we were working. Everything...it all points to this. Why didn't I know? Why didn't he _say_ something?"

"Sit down, please."

Gibbs' knees finally deigned to bend.

"Agent Gibbs, have you ever investigated a case of male rape?"

"No. Not in NCIS. There was...a guy in my unit who was captured...and...he was raped." Gibbs remembered the state of his buddy when they had found him. He had died. Massive infection and internal bleeding.

"Your agent was gang raped. There were two men and they apparently sexually assaulted him numerous times. He couldn't even tell me how many."

Gibbs had seen a lot in his years in both the military and in NCIS, but something about knowing that this had happened to _Tim_ of all people was...sickening. He swallowed.

"When?"

"A week ago, Friday."

"More than a week? Why didn't he say anything? He just said he was sick."

"Agent Gibbs, you should know that most male rapes, particularly male-male rapes aren't reported. Some statistics go so far as to say that only one in ten male victims of rape _ever_ report what happened. Agent McGee has been beaten and assaulted. He has experienced and _is_ experiencing incredible emotional trauma. You may want to confront this event in a forceful manner but you can't...not if you want Agent McGee to tolerate it. It says a lot for his strength of mind that he could continue to work with you at all in his current state. He is...horrified by what happened to him. Just about the only thing he was able to say out loud when I asked him about it was that _it can't happen to men. _He has bought into the myth that men can take care of themselves and that only women can be raped. It is believed by far too many in society. In fact, his reticence is more than likely what caused his collapse today."

"How?"

"He has a fever, probably brought on by infection. I am going to be examining him in a way that will be humiliating but it has to be done in order to remove the possibility of internal injuries. We are also going to be testing him for STDs, although he insists that the men who raped him used condoms."

Gibbs tried to wrap his mind around the horrible facts. Dr. Warren was so professional about it that he was sure Tim had accepted from her what he would not be able to tolerate from many others.

"Can I talk to him?"

"If he wants to. You can go and ask, but accept it if he says no. And don't push him to say anything even if he agrees. I could only get him to answer questions by nodding or shaking his head. He couldn't bear to say the words out loud."

"But he's going to be making an official report?"

"He agreed, but that will be easier said than done, I'm afraid. I'll leave the legal matters up to you, but medically and emotionally, be aware of just how damaged your agent is, how hard it will be for him to talk about it...particularly to men and people he knows well. If you have _any_ degree of skepticism that this actually happened, that he _was_ raped, you should stay far away from him. The last thing he needs is to face doubt over something he doubts himself."

"Why would he doubt it?"

"He's a man," Dr. Warren said, her tone ironic. "If a man is raped by another man, obviously he must have secretly wanted it. If a man was not able to hold off sexual assault by another man, then he enjoyed the experience. He deserved it. He wanted it." Before Gibbs could get angry at her for saying those things, she continued, "These are the kinds of things society teaches us about men, about male rape, mostly subconsciously. These are the kinds of things that Agent McGee has been taught and the kinds of things he has believed. He knows he was raped, but he also _knows_ that he couldn't have been because men can't be. ...and...I didn't ask this, but it's a distinct possibility that his body was aroused by the act. Male sexual arousal is a function that is largely automatic. It has no reflection on desire...but that's hard to believe when it happens. It also feeds into the perception that men secretly enjoy it. Keep that in mind."

Gibbs nodded, horrified as he was...but he knew one thing for certain. "McGee wouldn't lie, not about something like this...not about most things, really...but definitely not about something so..." For once, he didn't use words because he couldn't find the words to describe what he had been told.

Dr. Warren nodded and was obviously relieved. "Agent Gibbs, that is very good to hear. You would be surprised by how many people don't believe...even members of a victim's family often don't believe that it's possible."

"I've worked with McGee for almost six years. I know the kind of person he is...and he's someone I trust." Gibbs stood once more and then hesitated, feeling...strangely awkward. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"This is hard for you, isn't it."

"Yeah."

"Think twice...or better yet, _ask_ before you touch him in any way. Don't take it personally if he's afraid of you. He probably will be, no matter how well he might know you. Treat him like the intelligent man he is, but don't give him more than he can handle. Don't make this general knowledge. It's unnecessary and something that would likely cause more harm than good at this stage. Other than that...while there are trends I can point to...every person is different...and reacts differently. He's definitely going to need counseling."

"I figured."

"I'll give you some time to talk. Make sure you knock before going in. He's probably changed by now, but he may not be...and the last thing he needs right now is to be seen naked."

Gibbs had to smile at that...although there was pain attached to it. "That's probably the last thing he'd need any time. Is that all?"

"Yes, go ahead. You're dismissed." She smiled.

Gibbs turned and walked back down the hall to the door. He knocked.

"McGee? Can I come in?"

There was silence for so long that he was ready to accept that Tim wasn't going to want to see him.

"Come in."

Gibbs opened the door, not knowing precisely what he expected to see. He _wasn't_ ready to see Tim huddled on an exam table in a hospital gown with bruises up and down his arms and bloody wrists. ...and the bruises on his legs that went up beneath the hem of the gown.

"That's why you didn't want us to take off your jacket, isn't it?" he asked, pointing to Tim's wrists.

Tim looked down at them and then away. He nodded at the wall.

"Tim...I'm sorry."

There was no response.

"I'm sorry that I didn't see what was wrong, that I didn't know sooner. ...and I'm really sorry that it happened at all."

Tim shook his head at the wall. "It's not your fault. It's mine."

"No. No, McGee, it's _not _your fault. You didn't ask for that. Rape is _never _the fault of the victim. You know that."

Tim still wouldn't look at him and Gibbs wanted to sit down beside him, to comfort him...to erase that desolate expression. ...but he didn't move.

"I was stupid. I let them. I didn't even think twice...not even once. I trusted them."

"Can you tell me how it happened?"

Tim stiffened, kept his gaze on the wall.

"You don't have to right this instant. I can wait."

For whatever reason, that was enough to get Tim to look at him...finally. He stared at Gibbs for a long moment and then his face crumpled and he started to cry.

At first, he just cried with no words. Gibbs took a step and stopped when Tim stiffened, when he scooted away.

Gradually, he heard words, broken words, stuttered worse than he'd stuttered when he first met Gibbs six years ago.

"...th-th-they...r-r-r-raped...me...Boss. They raped me, Boss."

Gibbs took a step and noticed the stiffening. It must have been there every time...and he'd just missed it. "McGee, can I come over there? I'm not going to hurt you."

"I know...I know you're not." Tim's voice was high and cracked as he spoke through the tears. "I can...still feel them...all over me." Gibbs watched as Tim rubbed at the bruises on his arms. "I can't...get rid of it. Can't stop..._feeling_ them...feeling...it happen. Over...and over again. I can't." Any other words were lost in the fresh spate of weeping.

Gibbs took another step. Tim didn't shy away that time, although it was questionable whether he'd been able to see Gibbs through the tears.

"Tim, I'm going sit down beside you. Is that all right?"

Tim nodded...although he still edged away...but not far.

This felt very strange and awkward, but Gibbs remembered what Dr. Warren had said and he knew she had meant it. He remembered the first rape case he'd investigated. It had been one of the hardest things to confront...harder than murder. In its own way, rape was _worse_ than murder because it had the potential to destroy a person...and yet still leave them alive to suffer the destruction. Seeing Tim in such a state tore at his heart.

"Can I touch you, McGee? Your shoulder?" It felt strange to say it, to ask it, but he did anyway.

There was a moment of hesitation and then a nod. Gibbs reached out, never appreciating until that moment, how easily the simple act of comforting could be tainted, turned into...into an assault. He was never what anyone would describe as a tactile person (unless you counted the headslaps), but he was used to the idea of being _able_ to have physical contact if it was needed, to be able to convey through a simple touch a degree of concern. Now, he could see that Tim desperately needed comforting...but he could also see that it would be hard for Tim to see him as anything other than a representative of the men who had raped him.

Gently, he touched Tim's shoulder, felt the tension at the first contact and then, as he left it there, the gradual easing. It was a long moment, and Gibbs was willing to wait for it. It was a few minutes before Tim's sobs began to taper off, although the tears still fell.

"We'll help you get through this, Tim. I promise."

Tim nodded, although Gibbs wondered if he'd really heard.

"I have to ask you a question, and I can't believe I'm doing it at all, but I am."

A long silence.

"What?" Tim asked, barely intelligibly through his tears.

"Do you want someone other than NCIS to investigate?"

Tim turned to him, facing him his eyes, tear-filled, wide with surprise.

"I don't want to. I'll admit that. I want to find those guys and rip them to shreds, but you do have the option. We could turn it over to the FBI, even to Metro if you want to keep this private...or at least _more_ private than it will be at NCIS."

"I tried to tell Metro," Tim whispered and he turned away again.

"What?"

"I...called them...after...they...didn't...believe me."

"They came and didn't..."

"On the phone."

"Okay...so...not Metro." Gibbs was torn between wanting to kill the Metro detectives and wanting to ask Tim if they had really heard him. Tim's voice was so soft...but he decided it wasn't important. What mattered was Tim's perception, not reality. "Do you want someone else to investigate?"

Tim shook his head.

"You don't mind if Tony and Ziva know?"

Tim's eyes closed, dislodging a couple more tears.

"They'll have to. You know that. If we investigate...it can't just be me. Abby and Tony and Ziva...and probably Vance as well. They'll have to know."

"I know."

"So?"

"Don't...m-m-make me say it. Don't make m-m-m-me t-tell them."

"I won't. I'll do it myself."

"I feel dirty," Tim whispered. He rubbed at his arm, right over an area that was already missing skin.

Gibbs noticed other areas that were as abraded as the area Tim was currently attacking. Without thinking, he reached out with his other hand and grabbed Tim just above his wrist. ...the response was immediate.

"Don't! Don't!" Tim was off the table and across the room before Gibbs had time to establish, in his mind, that Tim was moving.

"Oh, Tim, I'm sorry." He stood, holding his hands out, showing that they were empty.

Tim began to cry again. "Every time...every single time...I can't stop...thinking about it. I can see their faces..._feel_ them...their hands...all over me. I know...I know it's not you...but it's them...always."

They were squared off like two enemy combatants when the door opened and Dr. Warren came into the room. She said nothing about the obvious face-off going on. Instead, she smiled at them both.

"Agent McGee, I need to examine you now. Are you ready?"

Tim's expression went from frightened to embarrassed to outright humiliated. He nodded.

"Agent Gibbs, if you could wait outside? We're going to need to document the injuries. Would you like to take care of that?"

"McGee?" Gibbs asked. "You want the hospital to do it rather than NCIS?" He could see the answer on Tim's face before he said it.

"Yes."

"We have the capability," Dr. Warren said. "Let me complete my physical examination and then we'll get things set up. You can wait outside."

Gibbs nodded. He looked at Tim one more time.

"McGee, I'm sorry."

Tim wouldn't look at him, but he shook his head. "Not your fault," he said to the floor.

"It's not yours either. Don't forget that."

Tim nodded...at the floor. Gibbs met Dr. Warren's patient gaze and then withdrew. Dr. Warren turned her attention back to Tim.

"Okay, Agent McGee, are you ready?"

Tim nodded again. "What do I have to do?"

"Just lay on your left side on the exam table. I'll tell you _exactly_ what I'm doing as it happens; so you won't have to worry. Just remember one thing for me, Agent McGee."

"What's that?"

"Remember that I'm helping you. This could very well bring back memories of your experience because I will be probing the anorectal area. It could be slightly painful, and it may feel, in some way, like what happened to you. Remember that it's not happening again. I am only examining you. Can you do that?"

"I'll try," Tim whispered. He walked back to the table, hesitated and then lay down on his side.

"Good. Now, just draw your knees to your chest."

Tim did so.

"Good. Now, I'll walk you through it. If at any point, you feel a sharp pain or else you just need me to stop, let me know."

She heard a sniff and then a tearful, "Okay."

"It's all right, Agent McGee." She paused, considered and then took a chance. "We'll get to the bottom of this in no time."

There was a silence and then a shaky laugh from the other side of the table. "That's...the kind of joke Tony would make."

"Joker, is he?"

"Tormenter," Tim clarified. He took a shuddering breath. "I'm the Probie...I always will be to...to him. He...He, uh..."

"It's all right, Agent McGee. You're going to feel my fingers, two of them. I'm applying topical anesthetic and then I'll wait for about a minute." She continued. "So...this Tony enjoys teasing you, does he?"

"Y-Yeah. I think he considers...it to be...h-h-his civic duty."

"I've known guys like that. Ran into them all the time in med school. They wanted to...toughen me up, I think they said."

Tim laughed shakily. "Sounds like Tony."

"Yeah, they didn't think it was quite so necessary the first time I punched them out. I failed to mention that I passed all my self-defense classes with flying colors. In fact, my instructor once commented that I treated self defense as if it were an offensive tactic."

Another strained laughed.

"Okay, Agent McGee. I'm going to start what's called the DRE, the digital rectal examination. It will be a little uncomfortable. Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Remember to tell me if you need me to stop."

"Okay."

Dr. Warren leaned forward and began...but it was only a few seconds later that she heard Tim start to cry and tense up.

"Do you need me to stop, Agent McGee? Agent McGee?"

"Yes...please, stop," Tim begged, crying.

"That's all right, Agent McGee. Do you want to sit up or just wait for a minute?"

"Just...give me a...a minute."

"All right. I'm going to put a drape over you. Tell me when you're ready."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Agent McGee. You don't have to feel sorry for reacting to what is, in the best of circumstances, an embarrassing examination. In your situation, this must be agonizing."

"Y-Yeah."

"Your boss seems like a guy you wouldn't want cross."

"Y-You wouldn't...but he...he's a...a...good investigator...and a good boss."

"Will he wait for you?"

"All day...if he...h-has to, I think."

"Sounds like the kind of person you want on your side."

"Yeah. I c-certainly wouldn't want to...go against him." Tim took a deep breath. "I...I think I'm...ready to go on, now."

"You sure? We can wait."

"No. Go."

"All right." Dr. Warren scooted back to the table. "Just like before, Agent McGee."

"I'm r-ready."

"Okay. You're going to feel one finger. I have gloves on and a lubricant. Here we go."

Tim still cried, but he didn't ask her to stop. The DRE didn't take long and Dr. Warren was relieved by the result. She cleaned the area, scooted the stool back and took off her gloves.

"You can sit up now, Agent McGee. I'm finished."

Tim's face was pale and his eyes red when he did face her again.

"I...I guess I'm probably the first person you've had weep like a baby during something so...s-s-simple," he said, trying to smile.

Dr. Warren smiled back. "Actually, Agent McGee, I can't tell you the number of times I've had people sobbing over the simplest examination. I'm not sure if it's me...but I do try my best to make it painless."

"It...It...d-d-didn't hurt."

"I know."

"So?"

"So," she said, all business. "My guess was right. You have a fairly substantial anal fissure which has become rather infected, but there doesn't appear to be any rectal tearing. I would wager that you haven't been sleeping or eating very well the last few days."

Tim shook his head.

"Basically, Agent McGee, your collapse was combination of everything finally hitting you, all at once. If you had been sleeping well and/or eating properly, the infection probably wouldn't have taken you down. As it is, you're worn out, stressed, injured and, very understandably, your body reacted to it in the best way it could."

"By collapsing?"

"Yes, by letting you know in no uncertain terms that it was overworked."

Tim nodded. "What now?"

"Now, I'm going to give you some recommendations to treat the anal fissure. I'm going to write you a prescription for a topical antibiotic and then, if you haven't changed your mind, we're going to set up to document what happened to you."

Tim swallowed. "Who...who will–?"

"You would prefer a female?"

He nodded.

"I can manage that. She's very professional and understands. You'll need to stay gowned until we finish. I'll draw some blood, make sure you have no other serious injuries. Then, you can dress again."

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"N-Never mind." Tim's breathing was still shaky and he was far too pale. He closed his eyes tightly.

"What is it, Agent McGee?"

"Why?" he asked, not looking at her. "Why did this happen? Why couldn't...couldn't I _stop_ them? Why did...wh–?"

"Agent McGee, your boss was correct. This is _not_ your fault. If two men had attacked you while you were on the job, if they had beaten you, would you have assumed that you could have fought them off all by yourself?"

"Two against one. I'm not...the best fighter either."

"It was two against one. Two men who combined their efforts to attack you. Having them rape you does not suddenly make it your fault! As for _why_ they did that? I have no idea. Rapists often have 'reasons' for what they do, but to be honest, I don't think much of what they have to say. There's no excuse for rape. Ever. That's something you should try to remember."

"I...I feel so..."

"Dirty? Soiled? Exposed? Humiliated?"

Tim nodded.

"Weak?"

He nodded again.

"Those feelings are normal, Agent McGee. That doesn't help, I know. No matter how many people have felt them before, _you_ personally have not. This isn't going to be easy. No step of this process of healing, of reporting what happened to you is going to be easy. I can only assure that, in the end, it will be worth the fight."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Are you ready for the next step?"

"I said I'd do it." He took a deep breath. "Yes."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Gibbs sat impatiently outside the room, watching as people went in and out. His impatience was not due to a desire to leave. It was due to a feeling of impotence. He couldn't do anything to help Tim right now and it was driving him crazy. Eventually, he'd be able to channel his energy into the case, but that would have to wait until he got back to NCIS and explained it all to Vance...and to everyone else. It was not a conversation he was looking forward to.

A woman walked by, carrying a camera and some forms. He started to stand and then sank back to his seat. Tim would _not_ appreciate his presence during what was coming next, he was quite sure.

Gibbs knew he had done his best in there, but seeing the transformation, seeing the _damage_ that had been done to Tim. It was almost more than he could bear. His team was his family and a member of that family had been attacked, had been...had been raped. It was hard even to _think_ that word in reference to someone he knew. He couldn't even fathom how hard it was for _Tim_ to deal with it.

"Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs shot to his feet as Dr. Warren approached him. Her smile was understanding.

"Please, have a seat. It's going to take some time. We can't rush these things."

"I know. How is he?"

"Tolerating what he has to...not much more than that. Your agent is strong though. Facing what he had to face was hard for him, almost intolerable. He thinks the world of you."

"Couldn't tell that."

"Actually, the fact that he let you get close enough to touch him says more than you might think."

"How is he?"

"The fever is minor. Once he starts taking care of himself better, you won't even notice...physically."

"Those...bruises and..."

"His wrists are pretty bad. They'll take a lot of time to heal. I think he's been rubbing them."

"He was rubbing his arms."

Dr. Warren nodded seriously. "He feels as though he's been branded, essentially. Like every place those men touched him is permanently soiled. You...and the rest of your team will have to help him, particularly at first. He's going to need people who can support him, help him remember to eat, to rest. He needs someone he can _really_ trust. ...and unfortunately, while I think that, in normal circumstances, he'd probably turn to you, he won't this time. Is there someone female he can lean on?"

"Yes. A couple of them."

"Good. He'll need them whether he admits it now or not. He's going to need someone to confide in...someone beyond a therapist. Are these women capable of bearing that kind of burden?"

Gibbs thought of Ziva and Abby. In their own ways, they were both totally capable...but he couldn't help wondering if Abby would cause more harm than good in the beginning. She would need time to accept it. Ziva would be horrified but would probably try to hide it.

"Yes. I'll have to talk to them about it, though."

"This is going to be a long hard road, Agent Gibbs. Even if everything goes perfectly, it will be hard. ...and I've never seen things go perfectly, unfortunately."

"Neither have I."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"All right, Agent McGee. That does it for the waist down. Here. Put on these scrubs for the moment and we can do your torso and arms without making you more uncomfortable."

Tim only nodded and accepted the pants she handed him.

Maia stepped back and pulled the curtains to give Tim some privacy. She'd had a lot of experience with this kind of thing, but every time, it was enough to make her blood boil. It didn't matter if it was a man or a woman, an adult or a child. The damage done was always horrible. Tim was, if possible, the worst she'd seen on the male side of things. Based on the physical injuries, she could understand why. He had stopped talking about five minutes into the session. He would only respond by nodding or shaking his head, forcing her to adjust her usual questions to accomodate his withdrawal.

"How did they hold your wrists, Agent McGee? Did they use cords?"

Shake.

"Just their hands?"

Nod.

"Hold them out." Click. Click. Flash. "Now, turn them over. Good."

The rapists had been meticulous about avoiding his face. The bruises all ended at his neck. That spoke to some level of experience on their part. She stepped around to the back and saw him tense.

"Okay, now, Agent McGee, I'm going to adjust your head so that I can get the most detailed shot of the nape of your neck. Okay?"

Nod.

"You're going to feel my hands on your neck."

A deep breath, let out in short spurts.

"Just hold like that. Good." She finished as quickly as possible. There were bruises on the back of his shoulders indicating that they'd knelt on him in order to pin him to the bed. She documented the rest rather quickly. It was, unfortunately, typical fare. They'd beaten him into submission before holding him down. The wrists and shoulders were the main points of restraint.

"Okay, we're all done, Agent McGee. You'll need to wait for Dr. Warren to come in again, but the photographs are finished."

"Thank you," he whispered, but he didn't look at her.

"It's not much I can do, Agent McGee, but this will help, even if you don't believe it now."

Tim didn't reply. It was silent as she finished making her notes and gathering her material.

"I'll send Dr. Warren in."

No response. ...until she got to the door.

"They took my sock."

"Excuse me?"

"They took one of my socks. I couldn't find it. I had to put on my shoe over my bare foot."

"What about the rest of your clothes?" Maia asked.

"They're in a bag...under my bed. I didn't know what to do with them."

"We'll get it taken care of."

"Thank you...for...being..."

"You're welcome." Maia left the room and saw Gibbs and Dr. Warren sitting out in the hall. "I'm done. Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs was slightly distracted by Dr. Warren going back into the room. "Yeah?"

"He says he still has the clothes from that night...in a bag under his bed, except for a sock he says they took."

That got his attention. "Really?"

"Yeah. I think you'll have to mention it. He probably won't bring it up again on his own."

"You're probably right." He looked back toward the now-closed door.

"Agent Gibbs?"

He pulled his gaze back to Maia.

"Yes?"

"I've never seen a man as emotionally hurt as Agent McGee. I'm no shrink, but I think you should watch him...especially if he seems to get better suddenly. People don't just spring back from this kind of trauma. If he acts like he has, then he's more than likely sublimating the experience and that only means it will come back out when you least expect it."

Gibbs only nodded. There didn't seem to be anything to say. Maia nodded back.

"We'll have all this ready for you by tomorrow. I can arrange to have it sent to NCIS."

"Thank you."

Maia left and Gibbs barely noticed. He was staring at the door, waiting.

He ended up waiting for another hour before Tim came out in his clothes. There were starkly white bandages around his wrists and Gibbs assumed that there were other bandages elsewhere. Tim looked so horribly unlike himself that Gibbs wondered how he could ever have thought Tim was okay in any way, shape or form.

"You ready to go, McGee?" he asked.

Tim nodded. "I have...a prescription," he mumbled.

Gibbs got that he wasn't supposed to ask what it was for.

"We can pick it up on the way back to NCIS."

Tim nodded again.

"You all right to ride with me, McGee?"

Another nod. Gibbs looked at Dr. Warren. She simply gave an encouraging smile.

"I've set up another appointment for tomorrow evening. We can talk about therapists and any other complications then."

Tim just nodded.

"Agent McGee, remember what I told you."

"No rubbing," Tim whispered.

"Exactly. It might start to itch, but even if it doesn't, I want you to leave your wrists alone. Let them heal."

Nod.

"You're going to be all right. It will take time, but you'll be all right."

Nod.

"Let's go, McGee."

Tim didn't nod. He just followed. Gibbs didn't try to speak. Anything he said would be stupid. ...but it made for a very long drive back to NCIS.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Gosh, took you guys long enough," Tony said. "What's up?"

"You and Ziva go into conference room one, Tony," Gibbs said. "We'll be in there in a moment." He didn't stop walking but let Tim drop his bag by his desk before walking with him to the stairs. Tim said nothing, and Gibbs did not put down the bag he was carrying. They both mounted the stairs to Vance's office and disappeared inside.

"What was that all about?"

"I do not know," Ziva said. "I suppose they will tell us. McGee did not look very good. Maybe he is seriously ill."

"I hope not. Then, I'll have to be nice to him." Tony grinned and got up. They walked into the conference room and sat down to wait.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You sure you want to be there for this, McGee? You can wait out here," Gibbs said softly.

Tim shook his head. "Just don't make me say it."

"I won't."

"All right."

"Director Vance will see you now."

"Thanks." Gibbs got up and walked to the door, trusting Tim to follow him.

"What's up, Gibbs?" Vance asked. "I don't normally get the pleasure of actually _admitting_ you to my office."

"Director, I would like to request being taken off our current case."

Vance was now completely focused on Gibbs...with a few side glances at Tim who said nothing and stared at the floor.

"Why is that?"

"Because I have another case I would like us to investigate."

"_You_ have a case? I wasn't aware of any other cases fitting the MCRT's purview."

"That's because it just came up."

"What is it?"

"A rape case."

Tim winced. Vance noticed.

"And I'm guessing that it has something to do with the reason that Agent McGee is in here?"

"It does."

"Well, tell me straight, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs looked at Tim. "You sure, McGee?"

Tim nodded.

"Agent McGee was raped a week ago."

Whatever Vance had been expecting to hear, it clearly was _not_ that.

"What?"

"He was raped. A week ago, Friday. I'd like to lead the investigation."

"When did you find out?"

"About three hours ago."

Vance looked at Tim, a rebuke on his lips...which died unspoken. Tim's eyes were closed and tears were on his cheeks.

"Does anyone else know?" he asked instead.

"Not yet. I'd like to keep this as quiet as possible...for obvious reasons."

"This could be too personal, Agent Gibbs. Are you sure that this is the best course of action?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"You keep this completely transparent. No hidden agendas. I want to be informed about it from day one." He looked at Tim. "Agent McGee, could you give us a moment, please?"

Tim nodded and left the office. Vance waited until the door was closed completely.

"Is this true, Agent Gibbs? You're sure?"

"The doctor saw it right away. I had to take McGee to the hospital because he collapsed. The first doctor suspected right when he saw McGee. Lots faster than the rest of us. The other doctor performed an full physical examination and they took pictures. If you want, you can see them all. I'm hoping I can keep McGee out of the room when I show them."

"Is Abby going to be able to tolerate this?"

"Once she has time to process it."

"You realize, Gibbs, that even if you do your best to keep it quiet, people will find out. There's no way you'll be able to hide it completely."

"That doesn't mean I have to parade it around."

"True enough, but you had better prepare McGee for scuttlebutt...because it will happen."

"I will."

"What about therapy?"

"Dr. Warren is going to give recommendations tomorrow."

"So...how is McGee doing?"

"About as good as you saw in here. ...not good at all."

Vance nodded.

"So...do I have your permission to investigate?"

"Yes, Agent Gibbs. Get whoever did this...but do it right. If and when you find the culprit..."

"Culprits. There were two."

Vance nodded, although his face hardened. "...when you find them, do _not_ go the vigilante route. I want them to go down...so this has to all be done right. Understood?"

"Completely."

"Then, go do it."

Gibbs nodded and left. Tim was sitting on a chair, not looking at the assistant who was looking at him in concern.

"Come on, McGee. We've got another stop."

Tim nodded and followed once more.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Boss! It's about time," Tony said again. "Why leave us cooling our heels in here?"

Tim sat down...away from all of them, his hands in his lap.

"We're no longer investigating the murder case."

"What? Why not?" Tony protested.

"Yes, that is _our_ case. Why should we turn it over to Lovitz?" Ziva demanded.

Tim's shoulders hunched.

"Because we have a different case."

"What is it? From Vance?" Tony asked.

"No. Not from Vance."

"From me," Tim whispered.

"McGee," Gibbs warned.

Tim lifted his head and looked at Gibbs...for a second or two. "I...I'll s-s-s-say it, Boss."

"You don't have to, McGee."

"I will."

Tony and Ziva now looked concerned.

"What's going on?" Tony asked, his voice worried.

"I..." Tim began and stopped. He took a breath and let it out. Then, another. Tony and Ziva sat in complete silence. That there was a _big_ problem, they could clearly see. "...I w-w-was..." He couldn't hold back the tears, although he tried. "Th-those two guys. At the bar. They raped me."

If a missile had suddenly been launched into the room, Tony and Ziva could scarcely have been more shocked.

"What?"

Tim couldn't say it again. He just stared at the table. Gibbs noticed his withdrawal.

"McGee was raped. And apparently you all saw who did it. Tracking down these guys is the case we're going to be solving now. You got a problem with that?"

They both seemed afflicted with the same problem Tim had and they shook their heads mutely.

"Good. I'll brief Lovitz. The photos documenting McGee's injuries are going to be sent over either today or tomorrow. I have the clothes McGee was wearing. We'll see if they turn up anything after a week under his bed. Since you two saw them, maybe you can work on a sketch."

"Does Abby know?" Ziva asked.

"Not yet."

"McGee," Tony began. He was horrified. "...I...I tripped you. I put you right in their laps."

Tim nodded at the table.

"Oh, man...I'm...I'm so sorry, McGee." Tony looked as though he was going to be sick.

Again, Tim only nodded.

"McGee, you all right to stay in here for a while?"

Nod.

"Okay. Tony, Ziva." Gibbs stood up and left.

"McGee, I'm so sorry," Tony said again.

Nod. A shaking hand wiped away a tear and Tony caught a glimpse of the bandages on his wrist. Tony left.

"Boss, I didn't know," Tony said, when they got out into the hall. "I didn't. It was just a joke. McGee was talking about how he didn't want to drink too much because he liked being able to walk on his own two feet."

"And Tony tripped him because it proved him wrong," Ziva said. "It is true, Gibbs. McGee thought it was nothing himself. He even joked about it."

"Why did he leave?" Gibbs asked. "Why didn't he stay with you?"

"He told us he was going to help one of the men back to his hotel room because he was too drunk to stand. He had spilled his drink all over them and obviously felt bad about it," Ziva said. "He said that he would just head home from there because he didn't want to stay out too late."

"Abby said that he hadn't relaxed enough," Tony remembered. "And McGee said that if he was falling over already, he obviously had."

"He was looking for a reason to leave," Ziva said. "He was tired."

"He left? And what did you guys do?"

"We stayed, had a few more drinks, did some stupid things and then went home," Tony said. "Boss...should we be leaving him alone in there?"

"It's better than you or I going in, Tony. Right now, it's much better." Gibbs watched and saw the exact moment when Tony realized why that was. He looked almost as pale as Tim. "Ziva, I need you to come with me."

"Where?"

"To tell Abby."

"Why me?"

"Because McGee is going to be leaning on both of you more than Tony or I and you need to know what to expect."

Realization after realization seemed to be hitting them, and Gibbs could certainly sympathize with their shock.

"He feels safer with women than with men," she said softly.

"Yeah."

"When I called him on Saturday...he said he was sick. That must have been...right after..."

"He was so upset about that rapist."

"Why didn't we see this, Boss? We're _investigators_! That's our _job_."

"Because no one expects it to happen...because, like McGee, we didn't think it could happen...not to men."

"Why did he collapse? Was that because of his..." Ziva stumbled over the word. "...because of the attack?"

"Indirectly. We're going to have to ask him for details, but not yet. We're going to try and keep this as quiet as possible, for McGee's sake. Got it?"

Tony nodded and swallowed.

"Ziva?"

"Yes...yes, Gibbs, I am coming."

"Tony, start working on putting together a composite of those two guys."

"I didn't...I barely looked at them."

"After I tell Abby, you all can work on it. Actually, why don't you just come down now," Gibbs said, changing his plan. "We might as well talk about this all together."

"Without McGee?"

"McGee is _living_ it. He doesn't need to talk about it right now. In fact, he _hasn't_. The doctor said he wouldn't say anything to her. She had to ask him yes or no questions so that he could just nod or shake his head. Come on."

It was a surreal experience, trooping down the elevator to Abby's lab, seeing her doing her usual thing, listening to her usual loud music, having her usual good time with life...and then to have all of that stop. In fact, neither Tony nor Ziva really heard anything Gibbs said to her. They only saw her face as she listened to what Gibbs said. Her denial, her shock, her complete and utter horror at hearing that her beloved geek had been violated in such a way. She actually had to sit down and tears coursed down her cheeks as she listened. She sat in perfect stillness, the music off, no one else speaking. They just waited for the reaction that would most definitely come...the extremity wasn't loud. She leapt to her feet and hugged Gibbs so tightly that it was amazing he didn't suffocate. She whispered over and over again, begging him to say that he'd lied, begging him to make it all okay.

He couldn't say it. He couldn't fix it.

Things weren't okay.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Daddy!"

"Daddy! You're home!"

The two little girls made a beeline for Lane. He set down his carry on and hugged them tightly.

"I missed you!"

"Did you bring us anything?"

"Did I bring you anything?" He smiled mischievously. "I don't know, Mitch, what do you think? Do you remember me getting anything?"

Mitchell was already holding his own five-year-old daughter in his arms. "I don't know. I _seem_ to remember going somewhere with...I don't know..._something_ they might like."

"What is it? What is it?" The three girls all begged in unison.

Lane and Mitchell smiled silently while they continued the chorus.

"Oh, come on, Dad, tell them or they'll never shut up," Lane's son said, rolling his eyes at the antics of his sisters.

Finally, Lane pulled out a few small packages from his bag and handed them to his twin daughters. Mitchell did the same for his own small daughter. Then, he handed a larger box to his elder daughter while Lane gave his son, who was trying to look too cool for presents, another gift. While the kids were involved in opening their presents, Patsy and Rachel hugged their husbands.

"Lane, you have been putting in too many hours. We miss you at home."

"I know. I'm sorry. This should be the last for a while."

"You boys work much too hard," Rachel said after planting a firm kiss on Mitchell's lips. "Don't forget to take the time out to play every so often."

Mitchell leaned in close and whispered, "You want to play tonight?"

Rachel laughed and blushed slightly. While Patsy and Lane laughed at her embarrassment, she punched Mitchell on the shoulder.

"Nasty. What will our children think?"

"That they'll be getting another sibling?" Mitchell asked, leering teasingly.

"Mitch..."

Mitchell smiled and then backed off. "I have...well, not a _better_ idea, but a good one. Why don't we do a big old barbecue tonight to celebrate our return from sojourning in faraway lands?"

The suggestion was met with a round of approval and they all headed home. They'd been away for more than a week and it was nice to be back to normal life, with the people they loved.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It took a full five minutes before they could think about something other than Abby's reaction. Somehow, as extreme as Abby's meltdown was, it didn't hold a candle to Tim's quiet desolation, to the broken man who had been sitting in that chair, looking so small...so damaged. ...and they all felt the disbelief that came with realizing how Tim had been feeling...and that they hadn't realized what was wrong.

"Where is he, Gibbs?" Abby asked once she'd regained control of herself.

"Upstairs in one of the conference rooms, but...Abby..." Gibbs grabbed her by the shoulders to stop her from running out of the room. "You can't go."

"What?"

"You can't go. McGee won't want you to hug him right now. He barely wants to be _touched_...by anyone."

"We have to...do _something_, Gibbs. We can't...can't leave Tim...alone like this. We _can't_!"

"We won't, but Abbs, you have to understand how _he_ feels. This goes for all of you. Ask before you touch him...at all. That includes...everything." He looked at Ziva and Abby. "He's going to need your help...and he's going to need it more than you might think, more than _he_ might think and it's going to be hard."

"What do we have to do, Gibbs?" Ziva asked. Her voice had become almost steely. She was angry now. The shock had passed. In a way, Abby's breakdown had made it easier to push beyond the shock and into the anger that someone had done this to Tim.

"What we have to do is find out who these guys are and bring them down...but we have to do it right, and while we're off finding them, we can't forget about McGee. We can't let it become general knowledge. Scuttlebutt will run its course and we can't do anything about that, but we will _not_ discuss the details of the case out where everyone can hear." Gibbs looked at Abby. She understood.

"Photos?" she asked weakly.

"Yes. They should be here tomorrow."

She swallowed. "Tim won't have to look at them, will he?"

"No...but you will...and probably Ducky will be useful in determining patterns and things like that as well. Can you handle it?"

Abby nodded slowly.

"Abbs. If you can't you need to tell me right now."

"I can handle it, Gibbs," Abby said, her voice sounding stronger. "Anything it takes. What's in the bag?"

"McGee's clothes. He didn't do anything with them; so see what you can pull. You all saw the two guys who did it. If you can get started on a sketch without Tim having to do it, all the better."

"Boss, he's going to have to tell us what happened eventually," Tony said. "We can't just go off of what _we_ saw...because it wasn't very much."

"I know, but I'd like to give him a day to adjust to us knowing and to facing what happened. It's already been a week. The trail will be pretty cold to start and that's only going to make it harder."

"Boss?"

"What, Tony?"

"I know this is going to make me sound pretty cold, but, really...is it going to be any easier for McGee to talk about this, no matter _how_ much time goes by? At least, if we do it now, he'll have the chance to talk about it with _us_, get it out...a little bit at a time. I mean, he's not going to forget it, but details will start to fade, and it's been a week already."

Gibbs looked at Tony, knowing he was right, but hating that he was. He remembered far too vividly how violently Tim had reacted even to being touched, how he had barely been able to speak of what had been done to him.

Ziva sighed. "He is right, Gibbs. I do not wish to cause McGee more pain, but I do not think that putting off what is sure to be the first of many repetitions will make it any easier once he does say it for the first time."

For once, Gibbs wasn't the one making the decision. It was made for him by his team. Even Abby looked resigned to the truth Tony and Ziva were presenting.

"Okay. You and Ziva work with Abby on the sketches and then go and talk to McGee...but don't push him too hard. That comes straight from his doctor."

"Of course, Gibbs."

"I'm going to go and talk to Ducky. I'll send him up here with you, Abby, if he's not otherwise occupied."

Abby nodded, accepting what Gibbs was doing: giving her company. ...and she knew that she would need it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Ducky, you got a minute?"

"Of course, Jethro. Is this about young Timothy's collapse today?"

"Sort of."

Ducky caught the tone immediately. "What is it, Jethro?"

Gibbs couldn't think of any way of broaching the subject tactfully. "McGee was raped. Last week. By two guys."

Ducky stared at him almost incomprehendingly before sitting on a conveniently-placed chair. It was almost a collapse.

"Raped? Timothy was raped?"

"Yeah. We're trying to find who did it. I'm getting some photos sent over of his...injuries. They should be here tomorrow morning. I want you to help Abby analyze them."

"He never said a word."

"I know."

"I never even _considered_ the possibility..."

"Yeah. Neither did I."

"How awful."

"Yeah."

"I wish I weren't on duty."

"Me, too."

"You're being uncommonly agreeable, Jethro. This must have shocked you more than myself."

"I work with him every single day, Duck. How in the world could I have missed that there was more wrong than him being sick?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"This is hopeless," Tony burst out. "We never saw the guys. Not even _your_ vaunted memory is coming up with enough details to help us figure out who they are!"

"Maybe...I could help?" a soft voice asked from behind them.

Tony turned around, took a step toward Tim and then stopped when Tim backed away.

"That would be great, McGee...but are you sure you're ready for that?"

Tim shook his head.

Abby walked hesitantly over to him. "Tim, can I give you a hug?"

He nodded.

Abby hugged him gently but only let him go when, again, he backed away from her.

"You sure you want to do this now, McGee? We can wait until tomorrow."

"No. You need to know...now. It's already been a week. I've already kept you from getting a good start." Tim closed his eyes for a moment and then took a deep breath. "Please."

"Okay. You want me to go, McGee?" Tony asked.

Tim shook his head. "Could you stand...over there, though?" He pointed to the far end of Abby's counter.

"Sure, McGee."

Tim nodded again.

"Okay, here's as far as we got, Tim," Abby said and brought up one of the images.

"It's wrong," Tim said immediately and closed his eyes. A tear rolled down his cheek and he looked up again. "His eyes were brown. He was the one who...who...led me to the...hotel." Tim had to stop talking again.

Ziva touched his shoulder and he pulled away instantly tensing up.

"I am sorry, McGee."

Tim shook his head. "Square jaw, even features. I saw them...very...v-v-very close. He...was...first." He just breathed for a minute or two.

"Tim..."

With a deep breath, Tim shook his head again. "The nose is smaller. Skin is darker...not black, but darker."

Abby was putting in the information Tim was giving but suddenly, he pushed her out of the way and started doing it himself. His hands were shaking and he had to stop a lot to breathe but he did it all himself. Then, he slumped back and closed his eyes.

"He was a little taller than me...and he was...a lot...stronger... I couldn't...couldn't stop..." He started to cry. "They wouldn't stop. They wouldn't stop." He wrapped his arms around himself.

No one spoke. They had no idea what to say. How could you comfort someone who didn't want to be touched? Someone who had fallen so far? After a few minutes, he controlled his breathing and opened his eyes.

"The other one was...white. The one who was pretending to be...drunk."

"Pretending?"

Tim nodded. "He was...on the...bed... I can...still feel him...on me." He paled and swallowed a few times.

"Tim, that's enough. We can finish it later."

"No! No!" Shaking, Tim forced himself to look at the screen once more. "His eyes were blue, almond-shaped. I saw him...so close... Face was the same shape as the other. He had...big hands. He was taller than me. They were the same height." He plugged in various parameters and the face morphed into various shapes, the nose grew and shrunk, flattened and protruded.

Then, he was done...and he wouldn't look at the screen again.

"That's them," he whispered. "That's them." Then, Tim stood up and nearly ran out of the lab, away from the men who had raped him.

Tony started to go after him, but then stopped.

"Ziva...maybe you should go," he said. "Abby..."

"I'll...I'll stay...and start going through his...clothes."

"I'll...help."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Ziva hoped that Tim hadn't run very far.

He hadn't.

She found him kneeling on the floor by the elevator, arms wound tightly around himself, eyes closed, air being expelled harshly from his lungs.

She approached cautiously, not wanting to frighten him.

"McGee?" she whispered softly.

"I can't stop them. I couldn't stop them. They were...so...I can feel...their hands...all over me."

"Tim," she said and reached out to touch his shoulder.

His reaction was immediate.

"Don't touch me!"

"I am sorry, Tim."

After a few minutes, Tim shook his head but wouldn't look at her.

"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't seem to...separate them from...from everyone else. Everything reminds me...everything."

"May I help you up?" she asked and held out a hand.

At first, she thought he wouldn't take it...but after a moment he nodded and allowed her to help him stand.

"McGee, I do not wish this...but could you answer some questions about what happened?"

"No."

"We will need to know eventually, McGee. It is not something I am looking forward to but–"

"No!" Tim said loudly and yanked his hand away. "No!" Then, he pushed the button for the elevator and got on, closing the door in Ziva's face.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Ziva stood in the hall in momentary indecision. Part of her wanted just to go back to the lab and say that Tim wanted to be alone...but that would be a lie...and besides, Gibbs had drafted her to act as Tim's support. She wasn't doing a very good job of it at the moment. Taking a breath, she pushed the button and waited for the elevator. She had a feeling Tim wouldn't be going back to the bullpen, nor even to the conference room. Taking a chance, she went to the ground floor and walked out of the building. To her relief, Tim's figure could be seen on a bench in Willard Park. She walked across the street.

"Tim!"

He turned his head briefly and then looked back toward the Anacostia River. Ziva trotted over to him.

"May I sit?"

A nod. Nothing more.

"May I apologize?"

"Not your fault."

"No, I was clumsy and unthinking. You have already helped us more than we could have asked. I should not have expected more. I am sorry."

"It's okay. I know that you're right...but I can't react right." Tim leaned forward and wouldn't look at her. "I just can't. I know what I _should_ be saying, _should _be doing...but I can't. It's like the whole thing short-circuited my brain, rerouted the normal channels. I'm left with..." A deep trembling breath. "...with them."

Ziva struggled for something to say, but she couldn't think of anything that would help.

"It's funny how quickly things change. Now...now, all I have in my head is...is what happened...just them." He bowed his head and began to cry.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door finally closed for the last time and Mitchell sighed in exaggerated relief. He pulled Rachel close.

"You know what that means?"

"What _what_ means?" Rachel asked, smiling.

"That closed door?"

"I don't know, Mitch. Why don't you tell me?"

"That means that we are alone in the house. There are no children. There are no neighbors. No pets. No salesmen."

"Salesmen?"

"Just you and me, baby."

Rachel laughed. "I suppose that means you have plans?"

"I _always_ have plans...and tonight, all of them involve you."

The passionate kiss that followed was briefly interrupted by the ever-practical wife.

"Mitch, have you unpacked your bag?"

"Unpacked? I've been gone for over a week and have declared my intentions for your willing person, and you have to ask about my bag?"

"If we don't unpack it now, then we'll regret it later. I'll even get it done while you set up something romantic in the bedroom. You can show me how much you love me."

"I'd rather do that now."

Rachel smiled and pulled away. She walked to the abandoned bag and slung it over her shoulder.

"Go and surprise me, Mitch. It'll take me a few minutes at most."

"Surprise you?"

"Yes." She headed to the laundry room and then paused. "If you do a very good job, maybe we can discuss giving our kids another sibling."

"I love you, Rachel."

"I love you, too, Mitch. ...but I don't love your smelly clothes." Rachel walked into the laundry room and heard Mitchell run up the stairs. She couldn't count the number of times she'd felt so blessed, so lucky to have Mitchell as her husband. He was romantic, faithful, a wonderful father. He was perfect. ...except for his clothes. She dumped out the bag and began sorting through them. She got a small surprise as she was making up the white load. There was a single gray sock. Mitchell didn't have _any_ gray socks, let alone one...and she knew Mitchell's socks very well. She wondered if he had got one of Lane's socks by mistake. She couldn't, offhand, think of any way that could have happened, but with how close they were, it wouldn't surprise her.

"Oh, well. I'll wash it anyway. Patsy can thank me for lessening her load by one sock." She smiled to herself and started the washer going. Then, she mounted the stairs and heard the soft music, took in the dim lights in the bedroom.

She wanted nothing more than to be with Mitchell tonight.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The pictures were delivered to NCIS first thing in the morning. Abby received them and then stared at the file without opening it. She wasn't ready to see what had happened to Tim. She wasn't ready to confront the images fully. Her mind had been supplying horrific possibilities, but somehow she thought that reality would be worse.

"Good morning, Abigail. I was told you might be needing my services."

Ducky's voice was a tonic and Abby turned around, ran to him and hugged him tightly.

"Oh, Ducky, I'm _so_ glad you're here."

"The photos have arrived then?"

She nodded. "Oh, Ducky...this so...so _awful_. I can hardly believe it."

"Yes, I agree...but putting off the inevitable won't help...not you and I...nor Timothy."

Abby nodded again. "I know, but...Ducky, how can you stand knowing that this happened?"

Ducky pulled back and put his hands on Abby's shoulders. "By remembering that while it is difficult for me...it is _Timothy's_ burden to carry, not my own. All I can do is try to make it lighter. This is something that is not about me. It is about him."

Abby took a quick deep breath. "You're right. You're right, Ducky. I can do this. I can. ...but could you stay while I do?"

"Of course, my dear. That's why I'm here. I will need to see if I can see any patterns to the injuries. None of us will be doing this alone."

"Okay." Abby turned back to the monitor. With one more breath, she opened the file of photos. The images were organized according to their location on Tim's body. Front or back, torso, arms, legs.

The only way Ducky and Abby could tolerate looking at them was by forgetting that they were of someone they knew.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The polluted feeling wouldn't go away. Even with the confession of what had been done to him, Tim couldn't rid himself of their hands. After another night reliving the violation over and over again, he woke up and had to remind himself that he was home in bed, not in that hotel room.

"_You want to go again?"_

"_Oh, yeah."_

Tim whimpered and curled into a ball on his bed, rubbing at his arms. Dr. Warren's injunction flashed through his mind and he dismissed it, rubbing harder at a spot on his bicep that was burning with the palm print on it.

"_He's doing a good job, isn't he."_

"_You like this, don't you."_

"No...No...No..." Tim began to sob, still rubbing at that burning spot on his arm. He burrowed down under the covers, trying to hide from them...from the memories.

"_You love it. You know you do."_

"_Look at him. He does love it! In fact, I think he wants another go around."_

"No...no, please...please, no..." Tim begged through his tears. He felt them all over. The weight of the covers. It was them...laying over top of him, holding him down.

He flung the blankets off him, startling Jethro who was sitting anxiously on his haunches. Tim got up and stumbled into the bathroom, stripping off his pajamas which now felt constricting. He turned on the shower. Hot water. Full blast. The steam fogged up the bathroom almost instantly. Tim stood under the water. It was so hot it hurt. Grabbing his soap, he started rubbing at his arm, rubbing until the skin was gone. The bandages on his wrists were soaking wet, chafing his already infected skin.

Suddenly, Tim came to himself, realizing what he was doing...and he started to cry. He fell to the floor of the tub, reaching up one hand to turn on the cold water, cooling his skin, cooling his hysteria.

"I can't do this, Jethro. I can't do this," he whispered.

The bathroom was one of those rooms off limits to the dog...but Jethro was there. His fur wet from the water escaping the confines of the shower. He nudged Tim's face and whined at him.

"I can't," Tim said again, drawing his knees to his chest. "I can't."

Eventually, he turned off the water...but he didn't get out of the tub. He just sat there, naked, Jethro's head on his shoulder, trembling and crying.

"_You know you love it."_

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Have you seen McGee yet, Ziva?" Tony asked.

"No. It does not appear that he is here. I did attempt to call him once but I have not yet heard from him. Perhaps he is just resting. Yesterday was no doubt very difficult for him."

"Should we...do something?"

"I do not know what to do." Ziva sat down at her desk and looked over at Tim's empty chair. "Tony, I do not know."

"Me, neither."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What do you got, Abbs?" Gibbs asked.

Abby was sitting on her stool, staring at the photos of Tim's neck. Ducky's arm was comfortingly around her shoulders.

"Yes, Jethro, I do believe we know some of the details of what happened, even without Timothy's direct aid. You see this pattern of bruising?"

"Yeah."

"It looks as though one of Timothy's attackers knelt on his shoulders and neck and then held his wrists above his head. The other would have...well..."

"The other would have been raping him," Abby said softly.

"Yes...and the damage to Timothy's anus does suggest multiple attacks. There is no question that this _was_ an attack."

"Did you really think anything else, Duck?" Gibbs said sharply.

"No, Jethro...but the fact of the matter is that others _will_," Ducky said firmly. "This is evidence that should dismiss the possibility in anyone's mind. Timothy _was_ attacked, restrained, beaten and raped. It makes me ill to think that such a thing could happen, but the evidence here is conclusive. It will silence many of the naysayers."

"What about his clothes, Abby?" Gibbs asked, nodding in acceptance of what Ducky said.

Abby wiped her eyes. "It's...there's no semen on them. There were some...hairs. Most are Tim's, but not all. No matches yet on the DNA. No hits on facial recognition for the sketches Tim did yesterday."

"No hits on the BOLO either." Gibbs sighed. "If he had just come to us..."

"Yes, but he did not, Jethro. We cannot change that. We can only be sure he knows he can come to us now...and we can keep trying."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim never showed up at work and he didn't answer his phone. At the end of the day, Dr. Warren contacted them and said that Tim had not come to their scheduled appointment. It only increased their worry and so, by unspoken consent, Abby and Ziva headed out to Silver Spring to find out what was going on. His car was in its parking space, but there were no lights on in Tim's apartment.

"What if he's–?" Abby couldn't finish her thought.

"No." Ziva strode up the stairs and to his door. She knocked. "McGee! Let us in!"

Jethro could be heard whining on the other side, but no sound of shuffling feet signaled Tim approaching the door.

"McGee, I am going to unlock your door myself if you do not open it!"

Silence...and whimpering.

Ziva leaned over and quickly picked the lock. The door swung open revealing a dancing Jethro. Abby bent down and hugged him.

"Is Tim in here, Jethro?"

Jethro ran back to the bedroom. The two women followed. What they saw shocked them both into immobility.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Rachel forgot about the sock completely until the next morning. Mitchell often had that effect, particularly after he'd been away. She got the kids off to school, Mitchell off to work and then had to go grocery shopping. It wasn't until she got back from all that and was putting away the laundry from the night before that she remembered it. After getting the other clothes put away, she called Patsy.

"Hey, Patsy. It's Rachel."

"_Hey, Rach. What's up?"_

"Are you missing any of Lane's socks?"

"_His socks? Nope. All present and accounted for. For once. Why?"_

"I found an extra sock when I was doing Mitch's laundry. It's a gray one and I know he doesn't have any gray pairs."

"_Couldn't be Lane's then. He claims that gray isn't even a real color and therefore, he will not wear it."_

Rachel laughed but felt confused. "Where would this have come from, then?"

"_Who knows? Maybe Mitch decided to secretly go sock shopping all by himself...and then promptly lost one of his socks."_

"Well, if he's actually willing to shop for himself, I wish he'd tell me. I'll gladly cede control of his wardrobe."

"_Not likely..." _Patsy's voice became mischievous._ "...maybe he has a male lover."_

"Right, Patsy. Thanks."

"_Come on, Rach. Lighten up. You know I'm kidding. If Mitch was going to have a male lover, it would probably be Lane...and since we both know that's not happening..."_

Rachel laughed again and ended the call. Still, even with Patsy's reassurance and lack of concern, she couldn't help feeling that something wasn't quite right. She set the sock on the dryer, figuring that she could ask Mitch about it later.

The only problem was that, in the chaos of picking kids up from school, getting dinner ready, preparing for the upcoming science fair...and a number of other minor crises, she completely forgot about it again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was a frightening scene...but not for any obvious reason. Ziva and Abby could only stare at first...and then were horribly embarrassed for staring and looked away.

"Tim?" Abby asked. "What's going on?"

Well might she ask. Tim was laying, spreadeagled, on his bed, the covers on the floor...and he was stark naked, staring up at the ceiling, limbs carefully arranged so that he wasn't touching himself at all.

"I heard you at the door," Tim said softly. "I'm sorry I didn't open it. I was busy having a meltdown. I suppose I should try to schedule these things better."

The bandages on his wrists were gone. There were bloodstains on the sheets, although there wasn't much of it...just enough that it looked as though the fragile scabs had broken and oozed. For Abby, it was like seeing the photos she had examined that morning...only real...and so much worse.

"McGee..." Ziva faltered. "Why are you not...wearing any clothes?"

"I felt like they were choking me."

"You did not go to your appointment with Dr. Warren."

"I know."

"She was worried about you. Why not, Tim?"

"I was busy."

"Doing what?"

"Trying not to go crazy." He let out a horrible laugh...which was followed by a tear running down his cheek. "It's not working, is it?"

"Tim...why don't you put on some clothes?" Abby suggested and began to walk to his dresser. "You've got some that will feel okay, don't you?"

"Don't know. Didn't try."

Abby looked back at Ziva for a moment and then forced herself to focus only on Tim and getting him out of this state.

"Aren't you cold? Laying there like that?"

"A little."

"Let's try, then. Okay? Come on, Tim."

Tim didn't protest; so she pulled open Tim's dresser, found a pair of boxers and pulled them out. Then, she grabbed a pair of sweatpants and one of his MIT t-shirts.

"Why don't you try these, Tim?" she suggested. "They're loose."

"No, thanks. I'll just stay here." Tim's voice was _almost_ conversational...but with an edge of hysteria that was threatening to overwhelm the thin shell of sanity.

Ziva took a breath and approached the bed as well. "McGee, you must talk to Dr. Warren...and we need to get more bandages for your wrists."

"They're okay. They barely even hurt." Tim's eyes closed suddenly and his body tensed. "It...it hurt a lot worse b-before. I can't feel them there now. I can't feel them...not on my wrists. They're gone from my wrists." A few more tears fell and he started rubbing at his arm. "I can't feel them there...but I can everywhere else. They're all over me."

Ziva nearly lunged at him, to stop the damage Tim was inflicting upon himself, but remembered at the last minute Gibbs' injunction about touching Tim without permission. Although she wanted nothing less than to get away from this horrible sight, she sat down on the bed.

"McGee, you must stop this. I am going to touch your arm, all right?"

"I just want them to go away." The shell was cracking.

"I know."

Abby sat down on the other side of the bed, momentarily setting the clothes aside.

"Tim, can I give you a hug?"

Tim kept rubbing at his arm...until Ziva gently wrapped her fingers around his forearm and pulled his hand away. Tim didn't resist but he started to shake as Abby carefully pulled him into a sitting position and then put her arms around him, avoiding the places she knew they had touched to restrain him.

His wrists were a livid red, crusted infection and dried blood making an already horrible sight even worse. As Abby hugged him, Ziva kept hold of his arm, ready to release it if he required it.

"Why won't they leave me alone?" he whispered.

"They're gone, Tim. They're long gone."

"No...No...I can still feel them all over me. They don't go away."

"It is just what you are remembering, McGee. It is not them. It is a memory."

"It doesn't matter...Ziva... It doesn't matter. Even if I'm just crazy...I can still feel them." Tim closed his eyes tightly again. "They...th-they wouldn't stop touching me. It lasted...for...for _hours_. They just wouldn't stop." He began to sob silently, not having enough breath to make sound.

Tim's nakedness had been forgotten. To be sure, both Abby and Ziva were still aware that Tim wasn't wearing any clothes, but it was less of an awkward facet of this moment than it was simply an indication of Tim's state of mind...which was a black place to be...and only now were they getting a glimpse of just how black it was.

"You're not crazy, Tim," Abby said and held him tighter.

"Let go! Let go!" Tim pushed her away and pulled his arm from Ziva's grasp.

Ziva let go immediately. Abby held on for a little longer until she realized just what she was doing.

"Let me go!"

Abby released him and backed away.

"I'm sorry, Tim," she said, tearing up. "I'm so sorry."

Shaking, Tim stared blankly ahead. For a while he did nothing more than shake. Neither Abby nor Ziva could bring themselves to move. They just stood in silence, not knowing what to do. It seemed like forever but in reality was only about ten minutes before Tim seemed...almost to awaken from a dream. He kept his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance but he finally began to speak.

"I need help," he said softly. "I can't do this. I can't help you. I can't do what I have to do. I can't...not with them shouting in my head...not with..." The tears fell again. "...not with their hands burning me every minute."

"We'll help you, Tim," Abby said, taking a small step forward.

Tim shook his head. "No...I want...I want your help...but it's not enough. It'll never be enough. I'm...I'm too messed up." His eyes closed again. "I broke the lamp. I almost got away...but they were so...too strong. ...and...and I...I was..." He shook his head again. "No. No...it wasn't...I couldn't... Over and over... I don't remember them stopping. Switch. Switch. Switch. Switch. They just wouldn't stop...and I couldn't do anything to stop them."

"I'm sorry, Tim," Abby said again.

"I feel so dirty...like I can never be clean again." He began to sob again, hiding his face in his arms. "Make them go away. Make them stop!"

Ziva sat down on the bed again.

"Tim...listen to me. If we cannot help you, then you must let us take you to someone who _can_ help. Please. Let us do that much."

"Please, Tim. We want to help...however we can."

Tim looked up, first at Abby and then at Ziva.

"Please, Tim. We can do _something_...even if it's not enough right now."

Tim swallowed hard and then looked at himself.

"I'm...naked," he whispered.

"Yeah."

"I sh-should probably get dressed."

"Yeah."

Tim looked at Abby again. "You got clothes?"

Abby nodded and held them out.

"I'll wear them."

Ziva stood up. "I will wait out in the other room while you dress."

Tim managed a brief smile. "Not much you haven't seen now..."

"That is not why I am going. You deserve the respect of privacy."

"Thanks...Ziva."

Abby smiled and kissed him on the cheek. "We'll be just out there. I'll take Jethro for a quick trip outside."

"He probably needs it. I haven't done anything for him at all today."

"It's okay. He probably liked being lazy."

"Thanks, Abby."

True to their word, Abby and Ziva waited for Tim to come out. Abby took Jethro out, but she was afraid that something would happen in her absence and so she hurried him up and ran back to Tim's apartment.

She got back just as Tim was slowly walking out of his bedroom. He was carefully _not_ looking at them, clearly a little embarrassed at what they'd seen.

"You said I missed my appointment?"

"Yes, but Dr. Warren told us that she would be around for some time."

"Okay."

He knelt down carefully and gestured to Jethro.

"Hey, Jethro. I'm sorry I ignored you today. I'll do better. Promise." He looked up at Ziva. "You guys can...can go. I'll...make it on my own."

"No, let us take you, McGee. It will make _us_ feel a little better." She smiled gently.

"Okay. Let me feed Jethro first." He walked slowly around them to the kitchen. It took a few moments, but Jethro was happily gorging himself as the three of them left, Tim carefully standing separate from the other two.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Hi, we're here to see Dr. Warren. Is she still here?" Abby asked with a couple of worried glances over her shoulder. Tim had withdrawn into a silent shell on the ride over and it was impossible for her to know what exactly he was thinking.

"Let me check. Just take a seat over there and I'll tell her you're here."

Abby smiled and nodded, leading Tim to one of the benches. There were a few other people waiting as well. Tim sat down in between Abby and Ziva, not looking at or touching either one of them. His eyes kept darting nervously over to a man sitting across from them.

"It is all right, McGee," Ziva said softly, but she made no movement to touch him.

Tim didn't respond, even as his hands slowly clenched into fists.

"Timothy McGee?"

"What!" Tim shouted, the sound exploding out of him and startling all the other people in the waiting area.

"It's all right, Tim. It's okay," Abby said.

"Dr. Warren will see you now," the nurse said, her expression more understanding than frightened.

Tim stood up with an abrupt jolt.

"Okay." He took a step to follow but then stopped and looked back. "I've changed my mind. I want to go home. Please, let me go home."

Ziva walked over. "McGee, you know that you need to be here right now. They will help you. You said you needed help."

Tim shook his head and was obviously trying to stay calm. "No. No. I want to go home."

"You trust Dr. Warren, do you not?"

Tim nodded.

"Then, trust her now. You will be safe, McGee."

"You two can come back with him if you want."

"Do you want us to come, Tim?" Abby asked.

Tim nodded again.

"Okay. We'll come with you."

They walked back to Dr. Warren's office together. Her door was open and she smiled briefly at them.

"Tim. You missed your appointment today."

Tim just nodded.

"Let me see your wrists."

He held them out with no hesitation. She sighed.

"Okay. Let's fix that first. Then, we'll talk."

"Okay."

It took very little time to treat Tim's wrists and cover them once more with clean white bandages. When they returned to Dr. Warren's office, she stopped Ziva and Abby.

"This is going to be a confidential conversation. You can wait out here."

"Will you be all right, Tim?"

Tim only nodded again, having once more lapsed into near silence.

"Okay. We will remain right outside until you are ready to leave."

"Thanks," he whispered and then stepped inside. Dr. Warren gestured to the chairs and then closed the door.

"What are we going to do, Ziva? Tim's really messed up."

"What we have been doing already."

"What do you mean?"

Ziva sighed and picked up a magazine. "We will wait until McGee needs us...and then we will help as much as we can."

Abby nodded and then hugged Ziva tightly.

"I'm glad I don't have to do this on my own, Ziva."

Ziva stiffened and then quickly returned the hug...if only so that Abby would let her go.

"I am glad McGee does not have to do this on _his_ own."

Abby sat up and nodded.

"...but I think he is doing it on his own right now."


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"Don't you have a deposit to make, Lane?" Mitchell asked near the end of the work day.

"Nope. I went last time. It's your turn to enjoy that," Lane said, barely looking up.

"I saw you with it before we left."

"I put it in _your_ bag. Didn't you see it?"

The silence lasted just a bit too long and Lane looked up. "What is it, Mitch?"

"I didn't see it...and Rachel did the laundry last night."

"Didn't she say anything to you?"

"Not a word."

"Maybe it's still in the bag, then. You'd better check when you get home."

"I will."

"If she'd seen it, Rachel would have said something. You still make her do all your shopping. She knows your wardrobe intimately." Lane felt the momentary worry fade. "Even if she did see it, you can always just say that you bought a pair of socks for whatever reason. You only run the risk of her forcing you to make some decisions regarding what you wear."

Mitchell laughed. "That's dangerous."

Lane smiled. "I know. You have absolutely no fashion sense. You're lucky Rachel was willing to take you without it. How any guy who grew up as rich as you couldn't figure out what looks good is beyond me. ...I wouldn't worry about it. Not yet. There's no reason to think that there's a problem."

"Well, there's a _small_ problem."

"What?"

"I don't get to go to the bank."

Lane laughed. "You could go anyway, but sometimes the anticipation makes it all the better."

Mitchell nodded and then went back to work. They both had a lot of reports to file on their trip. Lane was determined to get everything finished today. He had taken Mitchell's kids the night before. Tonight was his turn. They always traded off. Equal partners in everything. Neither one had precedence over the other. That's why they worked so well together. They had long ago learned that if they worked toward the same goal without any attempt to make the other look bad, they both ended up looking better.

It was the same with the safe deposit box. They took turns going and adding to it. It made the whole experience even better. The anticipation of the next visit.

Lane smiled to himself and then thought of Patsy. He had an exciting evening planned with her. He couldn't wait.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What happened, Tim?" Dr. Warren asked patiently.

Tim just shook his head.

"Come on, Tim. You need to tell me. I'm not a mind reader and while I can make some fairly educated guesses based on what I've seen, I still don't know. We need to figure out how best to proceed and in order to do that, I'll need you to talk to me."

"I..." Tim started but couldn't continue for a moment. Dr. Warren said nothing. "...I can't...stop..._feeling_ them."

"Remembering what happened?"

Tim shook his head. "It's more...and less. It's...their hands and..." He stopped again and wouldn't continue. The thought was too painful to complete, even in his own head. "I need to stop. I can't...can't do my job if I can't think of anything else."

"To a degree that's true, but Tim, you have to realize that you're not going to get out of this right away. It's going to take time. What happened?"

"I felt like everything was too...too close...that...that they were..." Tim shook his head and closed his eyes, trying to hide from the horror.

"And?"

"I had to get clean. I showered until I realized that I was almost...burning myself...but I couldn't feel them when I did. I couldn't feel their hands when the water was so hot." Tim opened his eyes and looked at her, pleading. "When will it stop?"

"I don't know, Tim."

Tim's eyes filled with tears. "It won't ever stop. I feel like...like my whole life has been..."

"Destroyed?"

A solitary nod.

"It hasn't been. It feels like it, but you can beat this. You can beat _them_. You don't have to accept that what they did has ruined you. You can fight back. You can't change what happened. Nothing will do that, but you _can_ change what the memory of it does to you."

"I couldn't fight it. Every time I...I remember...I... I..." He shuddered. "It makes me feel sick."

Dr. Warren was silent for a brief period.

"We should talk about who would best help you get through this. I have a list of a number of my colleagues, experts in helping people cope with sexual assault."

"Can't you?"

"I'm an option, but there are others who are more experienced in the area of male rape."

"Please...I don't...don't want that. I don't want to..." Tim started rubbing at his arms.

Dr. Warren reached out slowly, in his view, and gently stopped the action.

"Remember, Tim."

"No rubbing...but..."

"I understand that you are reacting to violent memories, but this is where the fight begins. It's the first small step. You know why you're doing it."

"Because I can still feel them."

"Yes, but you know they're not there, right?"

Tim nodded.

"That means that you can react in a different way. It will be hard. You won't always succeed, but you can start."

"I can't."

"You can, but only if you're willing to try. Are you?"

"It feels like it's still happening. It's so hard to breathe." Indeed, Tim's respiration became noisy and panicked.

"You can breathe, Tim. It's not still happening."

"It is. They're right there." Tim started to cry. "Please, make it stop. I don't want it. I don't want it."

"Don't want what?"

"I don't like it. I don't like it," Tim sobbed, hunching his shoulders. "No, you're wrong. I don't like it. Please, stop."

"Tim, you're going to feel my hand on your arm," Dr. Warren said, reaching out. She touched his arm. "I need to ask you something, Tim."

"No. No. Please." Tim was only half-listening to her. He knew Dr. Warren was there, that he was in her office, but beyond that, all he knew was the renewed attack on him.

"How did you react to the rape, Tim?"

No response, just that tortured breathing.

"How did your body react?"

"I didn't like it. I didn't want it. I really didn't. I know I didn't. I wanted them to stop but they wouldn't."

"Did your body react?"

Tim looked down at his hands. They slowly clenched into tight fists...and he began to shake his head violently. "No. No. No. No. No."

"Tim. Answer me. Be honest. Did your body react to the rape?"

He began to weep. "I didn't want it to happen."

"I know."

"I didn't enjoy it."

"I know."

"They were wrong. They said I did...but I didn't..."

"I know."

"...but...but...my body did."

"No."

"It did...but I didn't. I really didn't. I didn't want..." Tim couldn't say anymore. He wrapped his arms around his abdomen, leaned forward and began sobbing.

"Tim, listen to me. It had nothing to do with _enjoying_ what happened. It was a normal physiological reaction that would happen to _anyone_. Any man. It doesn't matter. It's automatic and has nothing to do with how you feel, what you want, who you are."

"I kept...it wouldn't stop."

"Your body was aroused."

A nod.

"That is a common side effect of anal sex, consensual or not."

"I didn't want it!" Tim shouted. "Do you _hear_ me? I...I didn't _want_ that!"

"Do you think I don't believe you, Tim?" Dr. Warren asked.

Silence.

"Do you believe yourself?"

Tim began to sob again. "I said no. I said no. ...I kept trying to stop it. It wouldn't stop. They wouldn't...I couldn't...I..." He shook his head. "I said no."

"Of course you did. Tim, what happened was an attack. You are not to blame and there is no reason for you to think that there was some flaw in you that led to what happened."

"They wouldn't stop touching me. I almost wanted them...to hit me again. It would have been...better."

"You would have known how to react to that."

"I couldn't...couldn't stop...myself. It was like...like... They..." Tim shook his head. "I want to make it all go away."

"You can't do that, Tim," Dr. Warren said gently. "It doesn't go away. Not right away...and usually never completely."

Tim began rubbing at his arm again. Again, Dr. Warren reached out and touched his hand.

"Tim, look at me."

Tim lifted his head, tears streaking his face. "I just want it to stop."

"I know, Tim. ...but causing yourself pain, making yourself bleed. That's not going to help. It doesn't seem like it right now, but it will only be worse in the long run. You can't see the long run right now, I'm sure, but trust me." She brushed a light finger over the bandages on his wrist. "This won't help. Can you trust me that far?"

"I'm sorry," Tim whispered and dropped his head.

"You don't have to apologize, not to me, not to anyone. Right now, all you have to do is try to recover. That takes a lot of time...and a lot of effort. Don't try to force it. Just try to make it."

"I yelled at Ziva yesterday. I ignored Jethro. I'm falling apart...even more than I was before. I can't do my job. I can't focus on anything. The only thing I can do is...is _feel_ them on me. ...and that's the worst part. All I can do is live in those hours when they...when they..."

"Say it, Tim. Say the word."

Tim shook his head. "I can't."

"Okay. That's all right. It can wait. ...but remember, it's only a word."

"Does it matter?"

"Tim, would you have ever told your coworkers about what had happened if you hadn't collapsed in front them?"

Tim shook his head mutely. "No."

"Why not?"

"I...I can't...it's...even now, it's... I wish they didn't...know. It would...be easier if they didn't."

"Why?"

"I can't...forget if they don't. ...and they...won't. They can't."

"Can you, Tim? Can you really forget it?"

"I could...could find a way. Somehow. I can forget. I have to be able to forget it."

"No, Tim," Dr. Warren said. "No. It's not about forgetting. It's about accepting."

"No! I don't want to accept that...what...no. No, I..." Tim stood up and began walking to the door.

"Tim..."

"No!" Tim said again and opened the door. He left the office and almost ran into Ziva and Abby who were waiting for him. "No," he said again. "No." Then, he backed away from them and ran down the hall.

"Tim," Abby called after him.

Ziva looked briefly at Dr. Warren who nodded. "Go after him. Don't try to get him to come back here if he doesn't want to come, but don't let him run off alone."

Abby took off and Ziva followed. He hadn't gone very far. Outside the hospital, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and just stood there, shaking his head.

"McGee, wait," Ziva said.

"Wait for what?" Tim asked. "What is there to wait for?"

Abby ran around in front of him. "Tim, please..."

"McGee, do not run away."

Tim stared at the sidewalk. "There's...nowhere to run anyway. Can't get away from...myself."

"Tim, Dr. Warren wants to help you. We all want to help."

"You can't. No one can."

"Let us try," Abby said. "Please."

Tim shook his head again. "I didn't want this to happen."

"I know. I know, Tim."

"You can't know. Not...not really."

"Perhaps not," Ziva said, "but let us try. ...and please, you must try as well."

"I...don't want to try."

"What else _is_ there, Tim?" Abby asked, desperately. "You might as well try and...and risk failing. It's got to be better than giving up."

"Think about others who might become victims of these men," Ziva said. "You will help others avoid feeling as you do now. Is that not worth trying?"

"I don't know," Tim said with a sigh. "I just don't know anymore."

"Tim, you do know."

Tim looked at Abby and Ziva. He wanted to say no again. He wanted to run away from them, from everyone...but he couldn't. He couldn't _not_ try, not with Abby staring at him so hopefully, Ziva waiting patiently for the answer she thought she knew. They just couldn't understand how he felt...and yet...

"Will you come back inside, McGee? Or should we just take you home?"

_Home! Home!_ his mind screamed...but he said, "I'll come in."

Abby's relieved smile was almost enough to make up for how horrible he felt.

Almost...not quite.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Tim set up his visits with Dr. Warren, promised that he'd tried to leave his arms alone...and then went home and showered. Over the next few days, he managed to miss every one of his visits, rescheduling, promising he'd show up...and then finding a reason why he couldn't. Abby managed to get him there on Thursday, but either the visit was unsuccessful or Dr. Warren had her own plan because Tim stayed for ten minutes before he left again.

He was hit-and-miss at work. He would come in late...maybe not at all. When Abby or Ziva checked on him, he would be contrite, despondent, even depressed. ...and then the next day the same thing would happen again. On Friday, he came in on time...but then inexplicably left halfway through the day. He still refused to say exactly what had happened, and they were all unsure of whether they should be worried or angry at his behavior.

The case stalled without his account. They had managed to track down the hotel, but the men were apparently very good because there were no fingerprints. The room had been occupied and cleaned multiple times since the attack. The employees didn't remember the men at all, and the security cameras were wiped weekly to save memory space. There were no hits on the BOLO. Nothing. They had nothing...except a victim who seemed to be doing his best to avoid tracking them down.

Then, came the weekend...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"I'm a little worried, Lane."

"About what?"

"That sock. I can't find it, and Rachel hasn't said a word. It's not in the bag. I even cleaned out my sock drawer the other day, nearly gave Rachel a heart attack." Mitchell laughed.

"Maybe it fell out somewhere. You know the baggage handlers. If your bag sprang open, they wouldn't mention it unless they had to. If Rachel hasn't said anything, then she hasn't seen it and I wouldn't worry." Lane looked over Mitchell's shoulder. "Here they come. Rachel, you're positively glowing!"

Rachel blushed. "It's been a good week, Lane."

"I'm sure it has. You both look gorgeous...worth the wait."

"Absolutely," Mitchell agreed.

"What do you say we get this show on the road?"

"I'm all for that. The sitters have our numbers?" Mitchell asked.

"Cell phones, pagers, address, phone number of the theater...everything," Patsy said. "That means there's no excuse for you two homebodies to get out of coming."

"I don't want to get out of it," Rachel protested. "I just want to be sure everything will be all right."

"It'll be _fine_, Rach. Come on. Let's go. Box seats or not, I don't want to have to fight my way through the crowds."

"I do love _Aida_," Rachel said.

"Then, come _on_!" Patsy pretended to crack the whip and they all laughed and walked out, arm in arm.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Friday night..._

He'd never really tried to get drunk before. Oh sure, he'd experimented a bit once he'd reached legal drinking age, but the lessons of a lifetime had been hammered into his head so well that getting drunk wasn't something he'd ever wanted to do. In fact, drinking in general was simply a social activity, not to be pursued but to be enjoyed when the situation came about.

Not now. Now, he just wanted to drink until he stopped thinking. The hours stretched out in front of him...so much time to remember what he wanted so desperately to forget. He'd needed to leave NCIS when the memories came at him so hard and so fast that he thought he'd throw up again. On his way home, he stopped at a few places...so that when he came into his apartment, he was well-laden with alcohol. It wasn't the hard stuff. Tim didn't want the hard stuff. He wasn't trying to kill himself or anything. He just wanted to relax, to forget, to be able to go for a few hours without remembering, without _feeling_ what he had felt from them.

The first night hadn't really been planned. Abby and Ziva had dropped him off at home and he had come inside, body throbbing, crying out for pain to mask the hands. A glass of wine often relaxed him. One glass had become two...and then three...and then the whole bottle. He had slept. It had been a blissful night of not thinking, one he had decided was worth repeating, in spite of the misery he felt in the morning. Sure, it wasn't the best idea. He knew that, but seeing as he wasn't doing anything worthwhile anyway, he might as well feel good while doing nothing.

Tonight, he uncorked the first bottle and didn't bother with the glass. It was the weekend and he was _not_ going to suffer through the same moments he had before. He wasn't going to feel them touch him, feel his own body betraying him. He wasn't going to be the victim. He wasn't going to know anything at all. Wonderful, blessed oblivion was what awaited him...and that was all he wanted. He didn't care about anything other than getting away...as he'd utterly failed to do before.

_...their hands traveled from his wrists down his arms, caressing...before the next violent attack..._

He sank to the floor, whimpering at the force of the memory. Tears on his cheeks. Shaking...rubbing his arms. More than rubbing. He was scratching them now. There were long red tracks...four of them. No blood, but worn skin which would be worn away given time enough. It took Tim a good five minutes before he felt he could stand again. He grabbed the bottle and started to drink.

Drink until it all goes away. Drink until you can't feel the knee on your back pressing you down. Drink until their hands disappear. Drink until you can't hear their voices. Drink until you don't even remember why it is you're drinking in the first place.

It didn't matter that it was wrong. It didn't matter that he was weak. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. All that mattered was forgetting. Forgetting their voices, their hands...forgetting _them_. That was all he wanted to do. They didn't exist in his intoxicated world and that was what he wanted, what he needed. Maybe if he forgot them enough, they would go away for good.

Tim thought about going into the bedroom, but he didn't want to lay on his bed. He didn't want to feel the mattress. That was too much like feeling them. Instead, he slid down to the floor in the kitchen again. Jethro was at a kennel. He didn't feel as though he could actually take care of his dog at the moment; so he'd dropped him off. That meant he was alone. No one else with him. No one except his ghosts and they'd be banished soon enough.

"_Do you want some more? I think you do..."_

"No!" Tim shouted. "No, I don't!" He threw the half-empty bottle across the kitchen where it shattered, spilling the leftover wine on the floor. ...just as he'd spilled it on his rapists. Tim pulled back into a corner and began to cry.

Then, he crawled across the floor to the counter and reached up for another bottle. He opened it and pulled back into his corner, knowing that they couldn't get him from behind if he was wedged in.

"Go away," he whimpered. "Go away."

It wasn't as though he was watching a movie of what happened. It was feeling it happen to him again. Over and over again. He couldn't stand it. So he kept drinking until he felt more than a buzz. It was as though his head was sloshing with all the wine he'd drunk. It was both unpleasant and wonderful. He vaguely remembered why he had started this and that was enough to make him long for total oblivion even while his body itself registered a protest at all the alcohol he was consuming in such a short period of time.

It didn't take long to get there. He passed out on the floor.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It rained all day Sunday. The plans they had made to go out to the beach had to be shelved. Instead, each family spent most of the day trying to occupy themselves and then they played silly board games later that evening.

It was almost as fun as the beach would have been. When the kids were in bed, Lane and Patsy and Mitchell and Rachel sat curled together on the sofas in front of the fireplace. There was little conversation, just enjoying each other's company.

Mitchell still had a niggling worry about the missing sock but he pushed that aside. Why let something so insignificant intrude on the day?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Sunday night..._

Tim chalked up another day he hadn't compulsively showered. In fact, he had barely moved out of the kitchen in the last two days. He certainly hadn't changed his clothes. They were a bit rancid...particularly after he had thrown up on Saturday. ...but he didn't care. Ziva and Abby had both called. He had blown them off, claiming that he was tired. Tony had called once. Tim had said he wasn't feeling very well. Tony hadn't pushed. He had ventured forth from his apartment once to restock. The broken bottle from Friday was still on the floor. There were other bottles on the floor...but not broken ones.

From the perspective of his current intoxicated state, Tim giggled at the sight. This was behavior they'd expect of Tony, not of him. No one would think that naive and gullible Tim McGee would drink himself into a stupor. He didn't do that kind of thing. The laugh became tears as he recalled that no one would think he could have been in the situation in which he found himself...a victim. Another bottle. One more would do it. He wouldn't have to think about it until tomorrow.

Monday. He'd have to go to work. They'd make him think about it again. He didn't want to. They kept pushing him to. They kept wanting to poke and prod at the gaping holes in his soul. He couldn't stand it. It was like sticking a brand on his skin. He starting scratching at his arms again. He looked down at the now-bloody tracks.

"No rubbing. Guess I'll have to drink instead."

He drank until he passed out again.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Monday came and went. Tim came in to work late, did very little while he was there and left early. He seemed to be getting more and more out-of-sorts, although he flinched less around Tony and Gibbs. Ziva and Abby were having trouble getting Tim to talk about _anything_, let alone get him on the topic of his recent experiences. He was pulling back...and he was pulling back firmly, resisting any attempts to point out the facts of his case, the facts of his life...he didn't want that and he wasn't letting them force it on him.

As the week went by, Tim continued to drink to blunt the pain. The problem was that he couldn't avoid it during the day. Wednesday night, as he consumed more than a bottle of wine (with a minimum of solid food), he felt as though he couldn't face another day of them trying to get him to talk...

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What's wrong, Rachel?" Patsy asked. "You're a million miles away."

"I feel funny, Patsy."

"Funny...like...?"

Rachel smiled. "It could be, the timing's right...I haven't done any tests yet...but no. It...it just feels like something is wrong. I can't put my finger on it. I don't know."

"Is it Mitch?"

"It is...and it isn't. Mitch _seems_ the same, but...ever since his last business trip... Has Lane said anything to you about it?"

"No, but then, he rarely talks about his trips. He told me before that they're one boring meeting after another, and the only good part is when he and Mitch win." Patsy laughed.

"Yeah, that's what Mitch says, too."

"Have you talked to him?"

"No. Not when I can't even articulate what's wrong."

"_Do_ you think you're pregnant?"

"It's possible. I'm tempted just to wait and see when it comes to that time of the month, but..."

"That would make it an uneven three."

"Yeah. Mitch wants a boy."

"All men want boys. ...are you going to talk to him?"

Rachel sighed and then shook her head. "No. I'm going to see if I can chalk this up to pregnancy and if not...maybe I can figure it out later. Sorry for laying all this on you, Patsy."

"Hey, we're friends. That's what friends are for."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Thursday morning..._

It was six a.m. Tim felt sick. He felt nauseous, and he felt dirty. His stomach roiled against the abuses it had suffered. ...and yet...

He looked at the bottle on the counter. It would be so nice to have some sort of fortification against the attacks on his psyche initiated by his so-called friends. He _needed_ something to deaden the pain, something to keep him from wanting to scream with every question they asked him, every horrible memory they dredged up. He didn't need to drink as much. He didn't want to pass out, just blunt the pain a little. It wasn't as though they were actually giving him work to do.

Just one. ...maybe two.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony kept glancing at the elevator doors, willing them to open and reveal Tim coming into work...and maybe to do some _real_ work as opposed to his here-and-gone-again attitude over the last week. He was sympathetic. He really was. He couldn't even imagine how much Tim's life must suck at the moment, but it wasn't as though...

_Ding!_

The doors opened and Tim got out. Tony could see right away that _something_ was off...more off than he had been. ...but Tim also smiled at him as he walked by. He stumbled a little when he sat down at his desk, but the nervous agitation which had characterized most of their interactions over the past couple of weeks was absent.

Tim sat down at his desk and looked interestedly at his monitor. Tony watched him, trying to peg just what it was that was wrong.

"McGee?" he asked after a few minutes of covert observation.

"I have to go upstairs, Tony. I'll talk to you later," Tim said and stood abruptly.

That was at least par for the course...but even his avoidance didn't have the same edge to it. He seemed more relaxed, but that still seemed wrong and Tony couldn't figure out why it was wrong.

"McGee."

"Later." Tim walked to the stairs and headed up. His coordination was off. That was weird. He kept watching Tim, even though he wasn't sure he should be. Tim headed up the stairs, with a couple of semi-covert glances back toward Tony...but he didn't say anything. In fact, Tony was just about to chalk up his feeling as being more related to the four-day-old stale pizza he'd eaten last night when one of the agents from Intel...Donovan or something like that, stopped Tim as they passed each other.

Tony watched with a small degree of interest because Tim didn't seem afraid of this guy...and after all the cringing he was doing around his friends, it didn't seem fair that Tim wouldn't be afraid of this new-ish agent. Then, suddenly, everything changed. In a moment, the bullpen went from mid-morning quiet to chaos. Agent Donovan said something softly and Tim stared at him and then...without any warning at all he punched Agent Donovan as hard as he could. ...and Agent Donovan dropped like a sack of potatoes.

"Does _that_ feel good? Did you like _that_?" Tim screamed. Then, to Tony's horror, he kicked the prone agent. "How about that? Did you like _that_?"

He got up the stairs so fast, that Tony figured he must have levitated. He didn't actually feel himself running up the stairs in his urgency to get to Tim and stop him from killing the defenseless agent on the floor. He was as mad as he had been when they had caught the racist. Out of control, willing to kill.

"McGee! Stop!" Tony shouted as Tim dealt another heavy kick to Agent Donovan. He grabbed Tim's arms and pulled him away.

Immediately, Tim turned on him with a snarl. "Don't _touch_ me!"

Tim's breath told him a lot that he needed to know. Tony let go but he swiftly moved around Tim to stand between him and Agent Donovan who was moaning a little on the floor. If he was right, Tim was _definitely_ not in his right mind at the moment.

"McGee, calm down! Come on, let's...let's go in here." He gestured to the conference room. He moved toward Tim and with a light touch got him moving away from Donovan and toward the conference room.

"Agent DiNozzo, would you mind telling me what just happened?"

Tony grimaced. Of course the director would have seen that...or at least _heard_ it. Of course he would.

"Um...Director..." Tony started to shove Tim into the conference room. "...could you wait just a second...maybe a minute? Agent Donovan could probably tell you some of it." Tim finally walked into the conference room and Tony was able to stand normally.

Vance gave him a long look and then looked down at Agent Donovan.

"Certainly, Agent DiNozzo. Agent Donovan, are you seriously injured?"

"No, sir."

"Then, will you go and wait outside my office, please?"

"Yes, sir."

Donovan crept passed the two men.

"Don't take too long, Agent DiNozzo."

"No, Director." Tony turned around and walked into the conference room.

Tim was standing, staring at the table, fists clenched, nostrils flaring as he breathed noisily.

"McGee."

"I said don't _touch_ me," Tim said, angrily.

"Hey...what happened out there? Are you out of your mind? What in the world did Donovan say?"

For a long moment, Tim just stood where he was, standing, staring. Then, suddenly, he began breathe through his mouth and he sank heavily onto a chair.

"He...He said everyone knew...knew what had...what...happened. He said everyone had heard."

"That stinks, McGee, but is that why you tried to kill the guy?"

Tim shook his head and closed his eyes. Then, almost as though attracted through some unseen force, his hand raised and he started to rub at his arms.

"Hey, McGee. What's going on?" He reached out one more time.

"Please, Tony...don't touch me." And Tim's voice was full of tears. "Please, don't touch me."

"Okay. Okay. ...but you've got to tell me what he said that was so bad you took him down. You could get in huge trouble for a stunt like that."

"He..." Tim shook his head as he tried not to cry. "He...asked me...if... He asked me if I...I...liked it rough." Tim began to cry.

Tony felt a swirl of disbelief and sheer rage that someone could even _think_ asking that kind of thing was okay...much less thought it was okay to say to Tim.

"McGee..."

No response.

"...how much did you have to drink?"

"Not enough. It's never enough. I always remember." Tim stopped crying but rocked a little bit back and forth as he stared at the table.

"Okay...um...McGee, will you stay in here for a little while?"

"Yeah." He was listless. All emotion gone.

"Don't leave the room, okay?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be back in a little bit."

"Yeah."

"All right." Tony stood up and walked out of the conference room. As he had thought (and dreaded) Vance was there waiting. He _was_ impressed that the director had stayed out on the balcony rather than barging in and demanding information.

"Well, Agent DiNozzo? Would you mind telling me why the balcony became a boxing ring?"

"Not out here, Director. Please?" Tony asked.

Vance seemed to understand. His stance changed.

"Very well. We'll talk about it in my office."

"Thank you, sir."

Tony followed Vance, past Donovan who was sitting in the outer office. Tony was tempted to give him a sharp kick. He didn't, though.

"Now, Agent DiNozzo, will you explain?"

Tony watched as Vance sat down behind his desk. He was being the Director. Whatever he might feel about Tim's actions personally, he was, right now, thinking only as Director. Okay. No heartfelt emotional plea. Just the facts...which were bad enough.

"Did Agent Donovan say anything to you?"

"I haven't spoken to him yet."

"McGee said that Donovan told him scuttlebutt has made the rounds."

A look of regret crossed Vance's face but nothing other than that. "A little faster than I had expected but still, not a big surprise. I hope that's not the reason for Agent McGee's attack?"

"No. Agent Doofus out there..." Tony stopped. "Sorry, sir."

"Continue."

"He made a...a comment about it."

"It's not like you to be so reticent, Agent DiNozzo. If you want me to understand, you need to be explicit."

"Yes, sir." Tony sighed. "McGee said that Agent...Donovan asked him if he liked it rough."

The silence that followed Tony's comment was such that he was suddenly made aware of how difficult it was to have Vance's job sometimes. His expression didn't really change, but it hardened.

"I see. Well..." He took a deep breath. "...assuming that Agent Donovan corroborates Agent McGee's account, and assuming that he decides not to file a complaint, I will leave any reprimands from this incident up to Agent McGee's supervisor. You may go and tell Agent Gibbs what happened. Thank you, Agent DiNozzo. Your assistance is appreciated."

"Sir?"

"You're dismissed, Agent DiNozzo."

"Thank you, Director."

Tony turned to leave.

"Agent DiNozzo."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't kick Agent Donovan on your way out."

Tony saw, for about the first time, a hint of camaraderie from his employer.

"I won't, sir...but I can't promise not to want to."

"Can't be punished for what you're thinking. Dismissed."

Tony smiled and left. He walked by Donovan without looking at him and hurried down to the bullpen.

"Well?" Gibbs asked.

"You heard?"

"Hard not to, Tony."

"It's probably as bad or worse than you heard."

"Worse how?"

Tony looked up toward the conference room. "McGee's been drinking," he said, keeping his voice low.

Gibbs' face actually showed surprise. "You mean, this morning?"

"Yeah. I smelled it on his breath. ...and from how he talked...it sounds like this isn't the first time."

"At work?"

"I don't _think_ so, but...he's been trying to stay so far away from us that..."

"Is he drunk now?"

"No, but he might as well be," Tony said reluctantly. Tim was impaired no matter _how_ drunk he was.

"Where is he?"

"Conference room one."

"Okay."

"Should I tell Abby?"

"Ziva's down there, too. Go. I'll deal with McGee. Don't have them come up yet. We'll come down."

"You sure you..."

"Go, Tony."

Tony nodded and headed for the elevator. He didn't actually want to go back up and face how far Tim had fallen without them noticing. Tim wasn't the kind of person who used alcohol as a crutch. Tony knew that he himself was that kind of person. Gibbs was that kind of person...but not Tim.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Agent Donovan, please have a seat," Vance said, keeping his voice calm. Inside he was so angry that he wanted to beat the young agent to a bloody pulp, but he hadn't gained his position by being stupid.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, Agent DiNozzo, has given me his account of what happened. You stopped and spoke with Agent McGee on the balcony. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And while you were speaking with him, you made a remark which was both cruel and intrusive."

"It was just a–"

"Let me warn you now, Agent Donovan, that if you are so foolish as to call what just happened out there a joke, you will be fired. You haven't finished your probationary period as yet, and I can fire you with impunity. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You made your unfortunate comment and that was when Agent McGee punched you. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Let me see if I can understand what you were thinking, Agent Donovan. You came here, transferring to Intel from the field office in Norfolk, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"You decided you didn't want to be a field agent."

"That's right, sir."

"Why?"

"My...first case, sir. Decided I couldn't hack it."

"Your first case. A rape case, wasn't it?"

Donovan swallowed. "Yes, sir. I did the interview with the victim. She committed suicide the day after. We never caught the guy who did it."

"I see. A hard thing to face. Did you, at any point while you were interviewing that unfortunate woman, ask her if she enjoyed the experience?"

"No!" Donovan said, eyes widening in surprise. "Of course not! I would never..."

"Because she was a victim, right?"

"Right. The sicko attacked her. He _raped_ her."

"And at what point did you decide that speaking to victims of rape and asking them if they enjoyed being raped was okay?"

"Sir?"

Vance couldn't believe that Donovan was being so dense. He leaned forward. "I am only going to be this explicit with the understanding that if you ever repeat these details outside this office, you will be fired. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. You told Agent McGee that everyone knew he had been raped."

"Yes, sir. I did."

"Is that true?"

"No one talks about it much, but mostly, yeah."

"All right. It's true. Agent McGee was raped. He was beaten without mercy by two men and then he was gang raped by them. Multiple times. They held him down so that he had no choice but to submit." Vance clicked on the plasma, showing one photo of Tim's infected wrists. "Now, Agent Donovan, do you think that _you_ would have enjoyed such an experience?"

Donovan swallowed, looking ill. "No, sir," he whispered.

"You are aware of the trauma rape victims often experience, particularly when their experience is questioned and poked fun at? That some, like the woman out at Norfolk, are driven to suicide?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was that your intention? To drive Agent McGee to end his own life?"

"No! It wasn't like that! I was just..."

"Remember what I told you, Agent Donovan," Vance said, his voice cold.

"Yes, sir."

"Have I made my point sufficiently clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Then, here is how it will play out. You are suspended, effective immediately. You will be on unpaid suspension for one week. During that time, I don't want to even catch a glimpse of you here. In addition, you will have an official reprimand in your file which will remain there for no less than one year, at which time we will review it and see if you've learned empathy in that time."

"Yes, sir," Donovan said, his voice very small.

"Good. On your way out, do not try to speak to Agent McGee if you should see him. However, if you should _happen_ to see some of the employees who doubtless helped you decide on this unfortunate course of action, you may tell them that if I hear _any_ gossip about what happened to Agent McGee, they will follow in your footsteps out the door. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

Donovan stood up and walked to the door. His hand was on the doorknob when Vance decided to speak one more.

"Oh, and Agent Donovan?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You'll find that a frozen steak works better than ice at taking the swelling down on a black eye."

"Thank you, sir."

Vance watched him walk out of the room and let out a long breath. He'd never wanted to beat someone as much as he had at that moment. That anyone could feel that kind of a question was allowable shocked him. He looked over at the plasma and turned it off immediately.

The sad thing was that Donovan's comment, horrid as it had been, would probably not be the worst people thought...and said about what had happened to Tim. ...and he couldn't punch out every person who didn't believe him.

Vance was afraid that Tim would simply not be able to take it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Gibbs paused for just a moment outside the door. He didn't particularly want to go in and have to confront Tim, call him out for his behavior. He knew what was driving it, and he sympathetized...as much as he could, but Tim's actions were...going too far. Finally, he opened the door and grimaced as Tim automatically flinched away.

"It's just me, McGee."

"I know."

He sat down across from Tim. "You want to tell me what's going on?"

"No."

Well, he wasn't pretending at least.

"Okay. Then, how about you tell me how much you had to drink this morning before you came here."

"A lot. Not enough."

"_Any_ is too much, McGee," Gibbs said severely.

Tim wouldn't look at him. "No matter how much it is...can't ever be enough."

"How much did you drink?" he asked again.

"Maybe...two...three...glasses. About."

"About?"

"I didn't...actually use a glass."

"That much?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

"A week. Maybe a bit more."

"Why?"

"It helps."

"You know that's not true, McGee. Drinking never helps."

"You do it often enough. So does Tony."

"Not at work."

"Tony has."

"Doesn't make it right."

"Doesn't matter." Tim's voice was strange and distant. He was talking. He certainly _heard_ what Gibbs was saying, but he wasn't really engaging.

"McGee, you can't deal with it this way."

"Yes, I can. It makes me forget. If I drink enough, I don't remember what happened. I can't..._feel_ it happening to me. I can't hear their voices. I can't remember it."

"How much have you been drinking, McGee?"

"A lot. Until I pass out."

Gibbs decided that what he hated most was that Tim wasn't trying to deny it. He wasn't trying to pretend that it was a good thing. It was just what he was going to do, good or bad. He didn't care about anything else.

"What are you drinking?"

"Wine. Just regular old wine. Nothing special about it."

"McGee, you need to stop."

"No. I can't." Tim looked up, meeting Gibbs' stare for the first time in days. His eyes were full of tears. "You don't understand. You keep telling me that I have to...have to...say what they did to me. You keep pushing me to...to talk about it. Dr. Warren does that, too. I can't just _talk_ about it. Every time..." He paused, hands clenching into fists. "...I remember...it's like I'm back there. It's like it's happening again. Again and again. You keep telling me that I have to feel that! I can't! I can't feel that anymore, Boss! ...and now...everyone knows...and...and...Agent Donovan. He...what he said. I didn't want it. I didn't want it to happen!" Tim shook his head and dropped his gaze back to the table again. "If we find them, I'll have to face that again and again. People think..." Tim surged to his feet and walked away, to the opposite end of the room, as far as he could get away from Gibbs...possibly away from the experience he'd just had.

Gibbs waited, not out of stubbornness, but out of a need to understand, a need to get at what Tim was feeling.

"What do people think?" Gibbs asked softly.

"...that I...I liked it." Tim actually gagged a little but managed to master the reflex. "They think I...wanted them to... and I didn't. I didn't want it. I didn't want any of it."

"None of us think that," Gibbs said. "But this...Tim, this is wrong. Getting drunk? This won't help."

"I know it's wrong, but I don't care. I just want to forget. I don't care what it takes. If it means they have to get away, if it means they...they'll do this to someone else. I don't care. I'm sorry...but I don't care. I just want the pain to go away. I just want them to stop."

"Drinking doesn't stop the pain, Tim. It never does. It only makes it worse because you have to remember it again and again. Every time you sober up."

"If you keep drinking, though..."

"You end up killing yourself and maybe someone else. Is that what you want?"

"Sure, why not. What does it matter?"

For a moment, Gibbs forgot how Tim felt about physical contact, he forgot everything but his anger (and his fear) that one of his people cared so little about life at the moment that he didn't care if it ended, even if he wasn't actively seeking to end it. He stood up, stormed across the room and smacked the back of Tim's head. Tim jerked backwards, but to Gibbs' surprise, he didn't yell or run away.

"I don't think so, Tim. You are _not_ going to check out like this. You can't give up. You have to fight back."

Tim shook his head as he backed away, wavering a little on his feet. "No, I don't." His voice was starting to slur. "I don't have to fight. I thought maybe I could, but I can't. They won. Okay? They won. I'm finished. To the victor go the spoils. Let people believe it. I don't care. Who needs people anyway? Just leave me alone and let me forget."

Gibbs didn't move any closer. He knew that some of this was the alcohol talking, but even so, he was also seeing just how bad Tim was feeling...and it was much worse than he had realized. Even in his worst moments, he had never felt so much anguish that he gave up on _everything_. Even when he had been ready to kill himself, it had been a lot less about other people and more about being with his family...or not, just not being alone. Tim didn't care about that. All he cared about was the destruction of his psyche, his pain. That's all that mattered. He saw now that they had made a huge error in letting Tim go home by himself every night. Privacy was all well and good, but Tim wasn't in a state of mind to deal with it. He needed them for more than just support at work, more than just to believe him. He needed them right now just to function. ...and they'd dropped the ball.

"No, Tim. We won't leave you alone. Not anymore. Here's what's going to happen. I'm going to take you to my place. You're going to sleep this off. Then, one of us is taking you to your session with Dr. Warren and you are going to tell her about what's been happening." Gibbs saw the protest and moved right on into the part he knew Tim would hate the most. "And then, tomorrow, you're going to start telling _us _what happened."

"No." The reaction was instantaneous.

"Yes, Tim. It won't be fast or all at once, but you're going to start. We've been too lax in seeing what was happening to you, thinking that just giving you a boost was enough. You need to see what there is. You need to understand what you're doing to yourself every time you drink yourself to sleep, every time you rub at your arms. You need to see it, and I'm not going to let you avoid it anymore."

No response this time. Tim's eyes had dropped to the floor, once more avoiding eye contact.

"Tim, don't give up on yourself. What happened wasn't your fault, and you shouldn't have pay the price for it...but you do."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah, you do."

"Let me give up. Please."

"No."

Tim began to cry again.

"Did you drive here this morning?" Gibbs hoped that Tim had shown a modicum of good sense and was relieved when he mutely shook his head. "Why not?"

"I'd been drinking."

Almost, Gibbs laughed. Almost. Tim was still there, then. The men who had attacked him so horribly hadn't managed to completely destroy Tim McGee. It was such a logical answer to the question that Gibbs wanted to shout for joy that Tim had come up with it.

"Okay. Let's go down to the lab and let Abby and Ziva fuss over you a bit. Will you need one of them to come with us to my place?"

Tim shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

Nod.

"We can stop and pick up Jethro."

"He's at a kennel."

"Why?"

"I couldn't take care of him."

Again, that spark of responsibility that couldn't quite be snuffed out. Not yet.

"Okay, then we can leave him there for now. Get him later."

Another nod.

"McGee?"

Silence.

"It will get better."

Tim raised his head once more, eyes bloodshot and a bit dazed. "No, it won't. It doesn't get better."

Gibbs gestured for Tim to walk and chose not to respond. Tim shuffled forward but stopped when they got to the door.

"Everyone knows."

"That's not going to change if you stay in here."

"They think that..."

"Most of them don't."

Tim stared at the door and then hesitantly reached out and touched it. Gibbs waited but then had to leap forward when Tim suddenly sagged down to his knees, grabbing onto the doorknob as he slid.

"Leave me alone," he whispered. His whole body seemed to collapse in on itself. Gibbs realized that he was seeing what Tim meant by feeling what happened. He was seeing it for the first time. "Leave me alone."

"McGee," Gibbs said and tried to help him stand.

"Don't...don't...please, don't."

"McGee, it's not happening."

"I didn't want to leave...but I wanted to leave. I couldn't...leave, but I had to." Tim punched the door. "I _hate_ this!"

"Come on, McGee."

Tim wasn't facing Gibbs, but he started almost _climbing_ up the door.

"Come on, McGee," he said, his voice mocking Gibbs. "Let's go, McGee. Get over it, McGee. Deal with it, McGee." His voice began to rise. "Take your time. May I help you? Thank you for your services. Excuse me." He spun around and screamed in Gibbs' face. "Do _you_ like it rough? Do you?"

Gibbs remained passive even though he was horrified at how hurt Tim had been. He could see that Tim was working himself up, but maybe he needed to. He waited until Tim suddenly stopped. No screaming. No crying. No anger. Just breathing. He slid back down the door until he was sitting on the floor. Then, Gibbs crouched down in front of him as Tim stared blankly ahead.

"McGee?"

No response.

"You feel any better?"

Shake.

"You ready to leave the room now?"

Nod.

"You want any help?"

Shake.

"Okay." Gibbs stood up and backed away.

He watched as Tim got back to his feet and then opened the door without any hesitation. They walked to the elevator, took it down one floor, walked across the bullpen to the other elevator. Gibbs noticed every sideways glance and he glared at the offenders until they looked away. Tim showed no reaction, although Gibbs was sure he had noticed the looks, too.

The elevator ride down to the lab was equally silent. Gibbs made sure he gave Tim plenty of space.

Into the lab. They were all there waiting. Abby hurried over but stopped when Tim flinched away from her approach.

"Hey, Tim," she said gently.

Tim didn't respond.

"Can I give you a hug? You look like you need one."

Nod.

Abby carefully put her arms around Tim's unresponsive body.

"It'll be okay, Tim."

Shake.

Abby looked at Gibbs who gestured for her to let go before Tim felt trapped again.

"McGee's going to be staying at my place for a while," Gibbs said into the expectant, tense silence.

"Okay."

Abby smiled and walked back to her work station. She picked up Bert and then returned to Tim who hadn't even looked up in all that time.

"Tim, I'd like you to take Bert with you for a while. Okay?"

For the first time in days, Tim smiled. Shakily, briefly...but he smiled and took the stuffed hippo.

"Thanks, Abby." They all noticed the slight slur, but no one commented on it.

Ziva walked over and bent her head so that she could see Tim's face.

"I will take you to your appointment tonight, yes?"

Nod.

"You will go?"

Nod.

"And speak?" she asked, smiling.

Nod.

"Then, I will see you this evening."

Nod.

Finally, Tim lifted his head and found Tony standing back, giving him space.

"Thanks, Tony."

"If you want me to beat the guy up, I'm sure I could track him down."

Shake.

"Okay. McGee?"

Tim didn't speak but his eyes stayed on Tony.

"Don't do this anymore."

No response. He looked at Gibbs.

"All right, let's go."

Nod.

Gibbs waited for Tim to leave first and paused to look back at the others.

"Gibbs?" Abby asked.

"We'll see, Abbs. Can't say more than that at the moment."

She nodded reluctantly.

Gibbs looked at the others. They didn't speak; so he left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim said nothing on the ride over. He wasn't _quite_ avoiding Gibbs, but he was sitting closer to the door than could possibly be comfortable. Still, no words.

They walked into Gibbs' house and Gibbs directed Tim to his own bedroom.

"You can sleep in here."

"This is your room, isn't it?" There was just a hint of suspicion.

"I won't be needing it."

Tim made no response. He walked forward, still holding Bert. He sat down on the bed and looked at Gibbs. There was a question in his eyes, but Gibbs couldn't tell what it was.

"I'm going back to work. If you wake up before one of us gets back here...don't try to find anything to drink. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Will you do that?"

"Sure."

"How much alcohol is still in your apartment?"

"Don't know."

"What will I find there if I go now?"

"A mess. A lot of empty bottles."

Tim clumsily kicked off his shoes and lay down, Bert in his arms.

"Things will look better when you wake up."

"Nothing's better when you wake up," Tim said and rolled away from Gibbs so that he was facing the wall.

Gibbs thought about contradicting Tim, but decided that there was little point right now. He stared at Tim for a few seconds before shaking his head and leaving. It was hard to go, hard to know how much help Tim still needed.

...and really hard to know that no matter how much help they offered, it wouldn't be enough if Tim himself had given up.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Tim awakened feeling horribly sober...and definitely ill. His stomach churned with the alcohol he'd consumed...along with the solid food he'd eaten. He couldn't even remember now what it was, but it was enough that he sat up and threw Bert away from him, wondering if he'd make it to the toilet. He scrambled.

He didn't make it. He threw up in the hallway. When he finished, he sank to the floor, leaning against the doorframe, and began to sob. He remembered that first morning...

He wanted nothing more than to drink himself into an oblivion again. He wanted nothing more than to forget the pain, the horror.

_Gibbs said not to. Tony asked you not to. They all want you to stop. Why don't you?_

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tim inched his way up to stand. The vomit on the floor stank, reminded him unpleasantly of that hotel room. He forced himself to walk. Every step took all his focus. Every step required effort he didn't think he had. Eventually, he made it to the bathroom. He carefully knelt on the floor and opened the cabinet. A sponge. Cleanser. A bucket. He gathered them all, filled the bucket with water and slowly walked back to the evidence of his loathsome existence. Then, he began to clean up the floor. Every whiff he inhaled made him want to throw up again. Every second kneeling on the floor brought back the memories of what had been done to him. He persevered, scrubbing at the floor as intensely as he scrubbed at his arms.

Scrubbing. Scrubbing. He went back to the bathroom, dumped out the water, refilled the bucket and returned. Scrubbing. Scrubbing.

He began to cry as he scrubbed, trying to fight against the desire to drown his agony, to scrub at the handprints marking his body, to break something just to get out all the rage and pain churning inside him.

Instead, he cried and scrubbed at the floor...until he noticed that he was scrubbing at the threadbare carpet and wearing a hole in it. He was destroying it. He was trying to clean it and he was destroying it. The sponge itself was falling to pieces. Tim's own hands were reddened with irritation from the cleanser.

Tears marred his vision.

"_Roll him over."_

"_Look at that."_

"_He loves it!"_

"NO!" Tim screamed. He threw down the sponge and began to search for a phone. When he found it, he dialed Gibbs' cell number.

"_Gibbs."_

"No, Boss. No. I don't want to do this. I can't. I can't. It's...I...I want... Please...no..." The words, disjointed as they were, tumbled over each other to get out of Tim's mouth.

"_McGee, I'll be right there."_

Wandering through the house, Tim heard their voices...and now the voice of Agent Donovan layered on top of them, repeating over and over again, his question.

His clothes felt as though they were suffocating him. He felt so dirty. All he wanted was to rid himself of the sensation. All he wanted was to be free of it all. Still holding the phone, aware that Gibbs was speaking to him but not really caring what the words were, he began tugging on his shirt collar, pulling, pulling...until the top three buttons popped off. He heard them hit the floor. He didn't care.

He had lasted as long as he could by his own meager devices. Now...now, either they had to do something or else he was going to do what he wanted to do...either forget or try to scrub it away. Both would fail but still would provide temporary relief. That's all he really wanted...to get away from it, if only for a while.

He didn't know how long it took. All he knew was that he was sitting on the floor with the phone against his ear. All he knew was that his shirt was missing many of its buttons and he had stretched out the neck of the t-shirt he wore underneath. All he knew was that his skin was crawling and he just wanted something to make it stop.

The front door slammed open and Tim jumped, pulling himself into a tighter ball.

Feet ran across the floor and Tim waited for the worst.

No one touched him.

"McGee."

"I ruined your floor, Boss," Tim whimpered. "I was trying to...to clean it up...and I ruined it. I'm sorry."

"How?"

"I threw up."

"Feeling any better?"

Tim shook his head and kept his face turned toward the floor, his eyes tightly closed.

"I cleaned it up."

"Good."

"Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Why?"

Tim shifted away as he heard Gibbs sit down beside him. He still didn't open his eyes.

"I wish I knew, McGee."

"It's like they...they reached into my soul and tore it to pieces."

"What do you want to do, McGee? I don't mean what you think is all you can do. I mean what do you _want_?"

Tim carefully set the phone down. He opened his eyes and stared at the floor, his eye catching one of the buttons he'd popped off his shirt. He could see Gibbs out of the corner of his eye, but he tried not to pay attention to that. Instead, he reached out and picked up the button. The feeling of being smothered was slowly ebbing away, leaving that same exhausted deadness in its wake.

"Like I'm not living in a horror movie every second of the day...I want to feel like I...I'm normal again, like I haven't...haven't been..." Tears came into his eyes again. "I want to feel like I haven't been raped. That's what I want."

"You think this is going to do it?"

"Nothing will. That's the problem."

"McGee...you're wrong. Something will...but it's not this."

"What is it, then?"

"Facing the fact that it happened...and letting us help you."

"Help how?" Tim asked, rocking a bit. "What can you possibly do that will help?"

Slowly, Tim saw Gibbs' hand reach out. He flinched when it touched his shoulder.

"We can remind you that not everyone wants to hurt you, that most of us just want to help. Most of us care, McGee."

"But that doesn't matter."

"It does."

"I still have to go tonight?"

"Yeah."

Tim nodded. He saw another button out of reach.

"I ruined my shirt. I need to sew on the buttons. Do you have thread?"

"Yeah."

The hand disappeared and Tim couldn't help but flinch away as Gibbs got up. The thing was that he knew it was wrong. He knew Gibbs wouldn't hurt him. He knew none of them would, but he couldn't help the way his body reacted, the way his mind instantly associated the approach with...

He shuddered and closed his eyes again.

Then, Gibbs was back again.

"McGee."

Tim opened his eyes and looked at the needle and thread Gibbs was holding out in his view.

"Thanks, Boss."

Gibbs said nothing. He just receded from Tim's presence. Tim looked at the two buttons in his hand and the needle and thread. There was another button. He chanced looking up. Gibbs was gone...and there was the other button. Tim crawled over to it and carefully undid the other buttons...a couple were frighteningly loose...and took off his shirt. He tried to focus only on sewing the buttons. That was all that mattered. Nothing else. Just the shirt.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs left Tim on the floor and walked to the hallway. He immediately saw where Tim had ruined the threadbare carpet. There hadn't been much color in it to start, but Tim had bleached out what little color had remained. He had also shortened the lifespan of that particular patch by about ten years. He sighed and walked into the bedroom, saw Bert on the floor and sighed again. Tim seemed to be losing it, and he hated to see that in someone who didn't deserve it. Certainly, the comment by that idiot earlier hadn't helped, but Tim had already been on a downward spiral, even if they hadn't noticed.

The question was could they stop it. He picked up Bert and headed back out to the living room. Tim was sitting on the floor still, but he was now cross-legged and focused completely on resewing his buttons. Gibbs didn't even care how they had come off. He wasn't sure if he should be worried or relieved at what Tim was doing.

He chose to put off making a decision on that and headed to the kitchen. Tim didn't look up. In fact, Tim chose not to say a word to Gibbs until Ziva came two hours later to take him to his appointment with Dr. Warren.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, McGee?"

"I'm coming back here after?"

"Unless you'd rather stay with someone else. I have the most room."

"It's fine. I'll need to stop at my place and get some things."

"All right." Gibbs suddenly changed his mind. "Actually, I'll come with you two."

Ziva looked surprise but she said nothing. Gibbs' sudden departure had taken them all for a loop although they had covered it pretty well. He found himself wondering what they had talked about after he'd gone.

"Okay." Tim still wouldn't look at him.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't care about the carpet. I should probably replace it anyway."

He was rewarded by a small smile, although still no eye contact. He stopped only to grab a few things and then they were all out the door.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:** This is just a brief reminder of the time frame of this story because Ziva's reactions here are incongruous with what happened to her at the end of season 6 and beginning of season 7. I started this story in mid-season 6 and so I do not have Ziva's imprisonment as part of the story. Obviously, she would react very differently had she had that experience. ...so try to keep in mind that it hasn't happened here. :)

* * *

**Chapter 16**

The ride to Tim's session was silent. Intensely silent. Tim sat beside Ziva in the front. Gibbs, amazingly, took the back. Ziva said nothing. Tim simply stared out the window, obviously wishing he wasn't going where they were taking him. Gibbs just sat and waited. He'd done what he could, and now he knew he had to turn Tim over to someone who could help.

When they got out of the car, Tim walked a few feet away from Gibbs, slightly closer to Ziva...but touching neither of them. Getting inside, Gibbs was relieved to be ushered straight back rather than having to sit out in the waiting room surrounded by too many strangers. They sat together in the small area outside Dr. Warren's office for three silent minutes and then the door opened. Tim surprised both Gibbs and Ziva by standing up and walking to her without any urging. He looked like a child who had been caught stealing or something and was prepared to fess up...no matter the consequences.

"Dr. Warren," he said softly.

"Tim, I'm glad you made it, tonight."

"I have to tell you something."

"Yes?"

"I've been drinking." He looked back over his shoulder at Gibbs and Ziva briefly. Ziva smiled and nodded in encouragement. "A lot. That's why I haven't been coming. I was...trying to...stop it all...from happening."

"And I'm assuming that your friends told you to come here and tell me?"

Tim nodded. "But they are right."

Dr. Warren smiled. "Are you going to be waiting here for Tim?" she asked.

Gibbs nodded. "Yeah. We'll be here."

"When I'm done talking to Tim, I'd like to speak to you as well, if you don't mind."

"That's fine."

"Good. Now, Tim, come on inside."

"Okay." Tim shuffled in and the door closed behind him.

"What happened, Gibbs?" Ziva asked, her smile disappearing.

"He freaked out."

"This...seems like more than it should be. Why did he fall apart so thoroughly? Yes, what happened was horrible, but why has he made no progress? Why is he still being..."

"What? Weak?"

"I suppose that is a word for it."

"It's only been a few weeks, Ziva. How quickly did you _expect_ him to recover?"

Ziva sighed. "It is not that I expected him to be completely recovered...but he seemed much better when we did not even know that he had...had been raped. Now..." She spread her hands to encompass all that had happened.

"So...you know what is normal for a rape victim?"

"I know that I have seen women recover faster than McGee has."

"You'd better not be saying any of this to McGee."

"I am not! I am being supportive as I should be, but it does not seem to be helping."

Gibbs thought back to the worn carpet and realized that Tim had not been bleeding when Gibbs arrived. He had not gone searching for the nearest available bottle.

"Maybe it is. Maybe you need to be patient and accept that Tim isn't going to react according to _your_ expectations."

"He is barely reacting at all, Gibbs. Our case cannot progress without his help."

"Give him time."

"Until these men strike again?"

"Give him time."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Sit down, Tim. Let's talk for a bit."

"Aren't you going to tell me everything I've been doing wrong?" Tim asked.

"Do I need to?"

"Not really. I knew I shouldn't be doing it before I started. I just didn't care."

"Then, why waste time on it?" Dr. Warren sat down across from Tim, giving him ample space. "Or is that what you were hoping for?"

Tim gave a half smile in response. "Maybe. A little."

"Tim, I've told you before. This that I'm doing is to help you...but if you don't trust that, if you don't think I'm being honest, then we're not going to get anywhere."

"I don't want to talk about it, but you're all making me." Tim looked down. "Gibbs said that tomorrow I have to start giving a statement. I don't want to."

"What are you going to do?"

Tim shrugged. "I don't have a choice. When Gibbs says things...that's the way they always are...even with Director Vance. He always gets his way."

"Is that what you think he's doing? 'Getting his way'? That he doesn't care what happens to you?"

"I don't know."

Tim swallowed.

"Tim, we're going to change the way these sessions run, all right?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that we're going to start out with you telling me _one_ thing about your experience. I don't care what it is. I don't care if you've told me a million times already. I don't care what it is. ...but you tell me...one single thing, as detailed or as simple as you want it to be."

"I don't want to say anything at all."

"I know. That's why we're going to compromise, and you're going to tell me one thing. Start now."

"One thing?"

"One thing. I might ask you a question, but if you don't want to answer it, you don't have to. Just tell me one thing."

Tim stared at his hands and thought for a long moment. "I lied to you."

"Lied to me? When?"

"When I told you that I didn't know how many times they..." He stopped, skipped over the words. "I do know. I counted. I couldn't help it. I just did."

"How many?"

Tim just shook his head and his hands clenched into fists.

"Okay. Let's talk about something else. How did you get into NCIS, Tim?"

"What?"

"NCIS. I'm curious about how you got started."

"Why?"

"It helps to understand one's clients...by understanding their backgrounds."

"But...I didn't answer your question."

"You did what I asked you to do, Tim. You told me one thing about your rape. That's all I asked. So we'll move on to something else."

"But...NCIS?"

"Sure. Is there something else you'd rather talk about?"

"Is this important?"

Dr. Warren smiled. "Yes, Tim. This is very important. Trust me."

"Okay." Tim paused for a moment. He fully expected Dr. Warren to bring something into this request at some point that would lead back to what he didn't want to remember.

"How did you get started at NCIS?"

"I... went to FLETC," Tim said, not sure what else to say.

"FLETC?"

"It's the...the federal agent training. All federal agents have to graduate from there before being considered for a position. I went."

"And graduated, obviously."

Tim nodded and smiled. "Obviously." His smile faded.

"What is it?"

"One of my friends...from FLETC. He helped me with the stuff I kept screwing up. He was killed in a bombing a couple of years ago. We investigated it."

"I'm sure that was hard."

"It was. It should have been us. We were on duty but Gibbs got us out of it."

"You felt guilty?"

"For a long time. Jim had just got married. Paula...she...she died a few days later when the guy who did it came back to finish the job. She never could...get past her team dying."

"How did _you _get over it?"

"I don't know. I just... Time passed. I...I went to Jim's funeral. I guess in some ways...I'm not really. It's one of those things you just put away and try to forget because you can't deal with it."

"How did you get onto Gibbs' team?"

Tim didn't realize she'd asked another question at first, still lost in the memory of Jim dying.

"Tim?"

"What?"

"How did you get onto Gibbs' team? My understanding is that his is one of the top teams, the MCRT based at NCIS headquarters. It must have taken a lot of work to do it."

Tim shook his head. "I didn't really do all that much. I met them in my first year...back when Kate was still alive. She died about a year after I joined the team." Tim felt that faint pang for her pointless death. "...but...I was working at Norfolk. I was a case agent there. It was my first assignment after being hired." He actually laughed. "I was so terrified of Gibbs when I first met him. He was intimidating...and still is, and I felt like I was doing everything wrong...but I really wanted to be a field agent. That's where I'd wanted to be since I was young, out in the field, working cases, solving mysteries."

"So if you didn't do all that much, how did you get there?"

"Oh...I don't even know really. Funny...I never asked. I'd been working with them on a temporary basis which kept getting longer and longer. I'd been applying to become a full-time field agent. Even when I had to commute from Norfolk...four hours...I still did whatever it took to get here...did whatever was asked of me, more in fact, just to show that I was serious about my job. Then, one day, Gibbs came and told me that, not only was I a field agent, but that I was on his team. I was shocked. I was happy. It was...well...the dream didn't last very long. The hazing started and Tony, for some reason, seemed to resent me being there at first. It took some time, but I proved that I could do it. Every so often, Gibbs would even tell me that I'd done a good job. It didn't happen often, but he never kicked me off the team."

"And you like it there?"

"Yeah. This is the job I've wanted all my life. Sure, there are times when it gets frustrating, but...you work through those times and keep going." He smiled. "Even on the days when I want to kill Tony for being so irritating."

Suddenly, Tim fell headlong into a memory. The smile vanished as if it had never been and he felt as though he couldn't breathe. The almost-safe feeling he'd had before was gone, replaced by the crushing pain, the burning hands.

"Tim. It's all right."

"I thought they were done. I thought it was over," Tim whispered, breathing noisily. "They had stopped. They...They weren't done. They...had bottles."

"Just breathe, Tim. Keep breathing. It's all right. You're not in that room. You're safe here. Ride it out and let it go."

Tim closed his eyes and swallowed as waves of nausea crashed over him, the memories of what they had done. He wrapped his own arms around himself, leaning over...as he became more and more tense. His hands began to move, almost of their own accord, trying to get rid of the burning pain.

"Tim, I'm going to touch your arms. I'm going to stop your hands."

He heard the voice and felt the hands, keeping him from rubbing at the places where they had touched him. The hands weren't restraining, just firmly showing him where to put them.

He didn't know how long it was, but gradually, the flashback ended and he became aware that he was rocking back and forth, nearly falling off the chair. He was shaking and his muscles ached because of how tense he was. Trembling, he tried to relax, just a fraction, just enough that he could sit up again. He managed to look at Dr. Warren. He waited.

"Are you feeling better now, Tim?"

He nodded, not trusting his voice. When he felt that his muscles were no longer locked, he raised a hand and wiped his face, wondering how much of that was sweat and how much was tears. He waited.

"I have one last question for you tonight, Tim."

He waited, dreading it.

"Did you ever have any other dream job as a child? You said you've wanted to be an NCIS agent since you were young? Anything else you wanted to be?"

Tim was so surprised by the question that he answered. "An astronaut."

"Don't we all, somewhere inside ourselves?" Dr. Warren answered and stood up.

Tim stood as well, feeling a bit shaky.

"Do you want to take a minute or two, Tim? We don't have to rush."

"Okay. Thanks." Tim sat back down and tried to breathe.

"How about I go out to talk to your friends? You just wait in here until I come back in. All right?"

"Can...can I wait out there? Switch places?" Tim asked, not wanting to be alone in this room.

Dr. Warren smiled and nodded.

Tim stood up again and walked out of the office. Gibbs and Ziva looked momentarily dismayed at his appearance, but Dr. Warren, thankfully, gestured to them to come in. Tim sat down and closed his eyes, trying to stave off another mental attack.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What happened to him?" Gibbs demanded.

"Tim had a flashback during our session. What exactly triggered it, I'd guess not even Tim knew. When they come they have to be endured."

"He looks worse than when he came in," Ziva said. "This is helping him?"

"Trust me," Dr. Warren said. "Now, Tim told me that you are going to make him begin giving a statement tomorrow. He also said that you're the ones who told him to come and talk to me."

"Are you going to say that we should have waited until he was ready?" Ziva asked. "Because I do not think he ever would be ready."

"I wasn't going to say anything of the kind. I was going to congratulate you on getting him to do what he knows needs to be done. It's obvious he has a lot of respect for his coworkers...and he trusts you all to keep him safe."

"He flinches when we get close to him. That does not seem trusting."

"He _lets_ you get close. Flinching is bodily reaction to possible danger, to fear. He is afraid of being attacked again, but he _knows_ that you won't. That means that he is overcoming his baser instincts and letting you approach him. He's listening to what you say, letting you make some decisions for him. It shouldn't become the norm, but he is trusting you."

She waited and let them digest this point of view and then she continued.

"What I want to caution you about is pressing him for details. I don't know exactly how your investigation will proceed, but you shouldn't be forcing him to relive every moment. He does that enough without you. Rather, before you ask him any questions, decide in advance just how much you want him to tell. Then, when you get started tell him what he needs to talk about. Don't go any farther than what you decide, even if it seems like he could. Don't push him to his limits. Let him feel like he can handle some of these moments rather than all of them at once."

"Could I ask you a question, Dr. Warren?" Ziva asked.

"Yes, provided it is not for details of Tim's session."

"No. I would like to know why he is reacting so strongly...for so long, why this is still as hard for him now as it was."

"Tim has gone through what no human being should _ever_ have to go through. The men who raped him did so knowing _exactly_ what they were doing. Based on what I saw, what Tim has told me, they were not acting out some fantasy. This is something they do for enjoyment. They have done it so often that they know just how to break their victims down. This rape was not only of Tim's body. They tried to rape his mind and soul as well. Rape is always hard, always painful, sometimes impossible to get over. When it is done as...so methodically, it further dehumanizes the experience. Then, Tim went for a space of time without any support. From what we talked about tonight, I get the sense that he is always struggling to measure up, whether in reality or in his head. He did wrong by going with those two men. He did wrong by not fighting them off. He did wrong in what happened. He did wrong in that he does not feel strong enough to care about anything beyond his pain. He can see everything wrong he has done and very little right. That holds him back. ...but a specific reason for Tim's reaction as opposed to another person's? I don't judge my patients or compare them to each other unless there is a legitimate reason to do so. Tim's recovery has begun. It's slow, but it's happening."

"Was there anything else?"

"See if you can get him outside more. Don't let him hide in the dark where he doesn't want to be anyway."

"We'll try."

"That's all any of us are doing."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Ziva watched Tim shy away as the door opened. She tried to see the progress that Dr. Warren could apparently see. She listened with half an ear as Tim and Dr. Warren spoke about their next session. Most of her mind was bent on trying to see this progress. Tim definitely looked better than he had when he came out. He even managed a small smile as they left. It was just that he seemed too afraid, too nervous...too traumatized by his experience.

"Boss, I need to get some things from my apartment," Tim said softly when they reached the car.

"That's fine. Ziva?"

Ziva nodded and opened the door. The drive over was quiet, but slightly better than it had been when they left Gibbs' house. When they arrived, Tim looked at Ziva and then at the door to the building. He seemed a bit embarrassed.

"What is wrong, McGee?"

"My apartment...it doesn't look very good. I...I didn't...clean or anything there... You won't like it. You don't have to come up."

Ziva's heart sank, but she only smiled. "I will come."

She was rewarded by a tentative smile...which told her that it must be pretty bad up there. Gibbs got out as well and Tim flinched involuntarily. He kept looking sideways at him but didn't say anything. Instead, he walked to the entrance and led them up. At the door, he paused.

"It really looks bad," he said, not facing them.

"It is all right, McGee."

Tim nodded and opened the door. Right away, the smell assailed Ziva's nostrils. It smelled like a seedy bar...complete with the smell of old dried vomit. There were certainly enough empty wine bottles for it on the floor in the kitchen. It was clear where Tim had been spending most of his time.

"McGee..."

Tim closed his eyes and nodded. "It's bad. I know."

He stepped forward with a determined stride, past the kitchen and toward the bedroom. Ziva looked at Gibbs, her eyes wide at the scene greeting them. Gibbs only shrugged and walked into the kitchen where he got a garbage bag and began picking up the empty bottles. He said nothing but looked at her almost as if to challenge her for not doing anything.

Squaring her shoulders, Ziva walked back to Tim's bedroom. Tim was there, of course. He was standing motionless, looking at the bed. All the blankets were on the floor...as were the pillows.

"McGee?" she said softly.

He jumped and looked at her. "It felt like I was being suffocated. That's why I couldn't have the blankets on the bed," he said quietly. "They..." He shuddered. "They pushed my face into the pillow...to hold me down. There was always...always one." He swallowed convulsively and took a deep breath. "Anyway..." His voice was shaking. "Anyway, I'd better get some clothes...if I'm not going to be here for a while."

Ziva said nothing, but she could hear the oncoming breakdown. It was just one of many. ...but she could also hear his effort at _not_ breaking down. It struck her suddenly that he didn't like his reaction any more than she did. In fact, he probably liked it a lot less. It was an obvious observation, but at the same time, she'd unconsciously placed Tim's actions into the realm of something he chose. ...and she'd been wrong. Tim wasn't choosing his reactions right now. He was trying to ride them out. The drinking had been one of the ways he'd been fighting against his reactions. The rubbing had been another. Both had been doomed to failure because they couldn't last. People did that all the time. They tried to fight the pain and instead fell into the temporary solutions that really only made things worse. ...because all they wanted was to get away from the reactions they faced.

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"I am sorry."

"For what?"

"I did not understand."

Tim turned around and looked at her, the expression on his face a pale shadow of his usual quizzical expression.

"Understand what?"

"I did not understand how you felt."

"I don't think you really do now, either."

"Not as you mean. I did not understand how you felt about yourself."

"And you do now?"

"Yes. I think so."

"How is that?"

"You feel as though your body is no longer in your control and you do not know how to bring it back."

Tim looked stricken.

"Is that wrong?"

Slowly, Tim shook his head. The bag in his hand fell to the floor and he clenched his hand into a fist.

"It's not wrong," he whispered. "Ziva?"

"Yes, McGee?"

"Why?"

"I do not know, McGee."

Tim took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"They will not go away if you close your eyes."

Tim smiled slightly. "They don't go away when my eyes are open either."

"But since neither work, why not keep them open?"

"Why bother?"

"Because then you can see good things along with the bad things."

Tim opened his eyes and looked at her. "Like you?"

Ziva smiled. "I hope that I am a good thing to see."

"Better than...than other things." Tim took another deep breath and picked up the bag. His hands were shaking.

"Would you like some help, McGee?"

"Okay. I don't need much. Not really. Just some clothes. ...some stuff from the bathroom. Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Is it...wrong that I don't care about anyone else?"

Part of her was screaming that it _was_ wrong, that Tim of all people should not be feeling as though he was all that mattered. ...but this strange new awareness told her that Tim, at this point, really _couldn't_ care. He could barely tolerate caring about himself.

"I do not know, McGee. I only know that I cannot blame you for focusing only on small things right now."

"Well...I...I should get my stuff from the bathroom," Tim said and walked away from her.

"I will pack some of your clothes."

"Thanks."

Ziva sighed to herself once Tim was gone. It was so hard to see this, but it was equally hard to know that Tim needed to have only support. The kinds of things she would normally do to break someone out of a funk wouldn't help here. Instead, she just opened Tim's closet and began to choose some clothes for him.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Bottles. Mostly empty, but some with the dregs. The area of the kitchen floor where Tim had been sick...more than once. The grime of the food he may have managed to eat. It was all evidence of just how bad Tim had gotten...and how quickly he'd reached that point. It was as if he'd tried and tried to climb out...and then taken a sudden nose dive when he'd decided he couldn't make it. There was a broken bottle in one corner, along with a sticky stain.

Gibbs stood up and looked around for a broom. He'd picked up all the bottles, but he didn't want to cut himself trying to get all the pieces of glass.

"McGee! A broom?" He looked over by the computer parts and answered his own question. "Never mind."

He grabbed the broom and swept the broken bottle into the garbage bag. He shook his head at the mess that remained. He'd never thought of Tim as obsessively clean, but this was pushing it.

"Boss...don't..."

Gibbs looked up and met Tim's pained gaze.

"Don't clean up my mess."

"I don't mind, McGee."

"But it's _my_ mess. I made it...and this is _my_ place. You don't have to..."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." That was stretching the truth to the breaking point. This was disgusting, but there was no reason to mention that.

"Right. You want to clean up the detritus of my breakdown. I'm sure you love cleaning up my puke." Tim's eyes closed and he began shaking.

"It is all right, McGee," Ziva said softly beside him.

Tears started to escape from his closed eyes and he was trying not to have a meltdown.

"I threw up on the bed...after...when I woke up the first time. I wanted it to be a nightmare...but as soon as I moved...I knew it wasn't. It was real. It won't ever not be real."

"No, that's true, McGee. It won't."

"You're going to make me talk about it...aren't you."

"McGee, open your eyes. Look at me," Gibbs said.

It was with obvious reluctance that Tim did so.

"We need to start...but we don't have to do it all."

"I can't."

"You can. We'll take it slow. ...but, Tim, we have to make a start. If we don't...it'll never be over. ...and I know you don't think it can anyway."

Tim managed a smile. "I have a mop," he said.

"What?"

"A mop. For the floor." He shrugged and looked helpless. "I can do that much."

"All right. We'll get this cleaned up and then head back to my place."

"How far...how far do I have to go?"

"We'll settle that tomorrow morning, McGee...but we'll figure it out ahead of time and we won't go any further."

"Can we stop now?"

"No."

Tim put down the bag, walked to the closet and pulled out the mop and bucket.

"Then...I guess I'll start...mopping the floor."

"Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Rachel looked at herself in the mirror, wondering if she was just going crazy or if there really was something wrong. She couldn't recall ever feeling like this before.

_No, that's not true. There was one other time._

...but even now, she couldn't explain just what had seemed wrong then.

"Rach! What's taking you so long?"

Rachel smiled and then turned away from her contemplation.

"Just getting beautiful for you," she said as she walked into the bedroom.

"You don't have to. You're always beautiful."

Rachel got into bed and smiled at Mitch.

"You know just how to talk to me."

"I love you."

"I love you."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Tim went back to Gibbs' place and then begged to sleep on the couch rather than in Gibbs' bed. Seeing how desperately Tim wanted to avoid the bedroom, Gibbs just nodded and handed him Bert. Tim smiled at the hippo and then bedded down on the couch. Gibbs gave Ziva instructions to let everyone know what was going to happen in the morning and then he stood in the doorway to the living room, watching Tim lay quietly. He couldn't tell if he was asleep, but it was nice to see him outwardly calm at least. There was a long silence in the room and then suddenly Tim sat up in the darkness.

"Boss?"

"Yeah, McGee?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

Tim turned toward him in the darkness.

"Can I come in here or would you rather I stand back?"

"Turn on the light, first, please," Tim said, his voice very soft.

"I can do that." Gibbs flicked the switch on his way to the chair. He sat down and faced Tim who was holding Bert tightly in his arms. "What is it, McGee?"

"Why did you put me on your team?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dr. Warren asked me how I got on your team. I couldn't tell her. I have no idea why you wanted me on your team. I don't do anything that Abby can't do...well, I think I'm a better programmer. I spend more time on it, though. If all she did was computers, she'd probably be better. Tony's a better agent. Ziva has more experience with...just about everything besides computers. What do you want me on your team for?"

Gibbs looked at Tim, at his openly questioning expression...and he wasn't sure he could answer it, not in terms of solid qualifications. If all he'd been looking at was Tim's performance on the explicit tasks of a field agent, yes, it was true. There were other agents with more experience he could have chosen.

"It's not about being better than the other members of the team, McGee."

"But why?"

Gibbs sighed inwardly. He should have known that Tim wouldn't be put off by that kind of answer.

"I wanted you on my team because you wanted to be here," he said finally.

"Lots of people wanted to be on the MCRT. I know because I talked to other agents who did. People want to work at Headquarters because it's the most prestigious."

"You _really_ wanted it, though. I knew it wasn't for the prestige. You wanted to be there for another reason. I didn't really understand why, but I knew that you wanted it so much that you'd never give it up if something seemingly better came along."

"Why would that matter?"

"Because, McGee, I need people who are dedicated to doing the job, not just to punching the clock. We can't always keep regular hours. Sometimes, we do things that are hard...we _see_ things that are hard to take. I needed to know that I was getting someone who would do all that. You are _dedicated_, McGee. That's why I wanted you on my team. Your intelligence, your skills, they were nice bonuses, but the reason I wanted to have you was because I could see that you were dedicated."

Tim sat silently digesting that for a while. Then, he looked up. "Couldn't you have found someone better?"

"Maybe. ...but when you find what you know you want, why bother searching more than you need to?"

Tim nodded.

"Is that all, McGee?"

"Yeah...I guess so."

"Okay. Good night."

Tim just let out a soft disbelieving laugh and then lay down again.

"Do you want the light on?" Gibbs asked...and then remembered that the last person he'd asked that question had been Kelly.

"No, thanks, Boss. On or off...it can't make the monsters go away," Tim said, proving he'd had similar questions asked of him in his childhood. "...besides, I have to be really tired to sleep with the lights on."

Gibbs smiled and turned off the lights and then went up to bed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

He woke up, not sure why...only knowing that he'd heard something. He sat up quickly, thinking that Tim might be...doing something he'd regret later and got out of bed quietly, but swiftly heading to the stairs...but he stopped at the landing without going any further.

Tim was crying.

"Tell me...why," Tim wept. He was whispering but still crying.

Gibbs wondered who he was talking to...but that wondering was quickly dispelled.

"Bert, what I did do to deserve this? Why can't I get it out of my head?"

Then, came the noise that Gibbs realized he had heard and in spite of the sadness he felt, he also couldn't hold back a smile. He could only hope that the sound made Tim smile a little as well. He half-suspected that was why Abby had given Bert to Tim. When hugged in the depths of misery, it was hard not to feel a little levity when Bert made his trademark sound.

If Tim smiled, Gibbs couldn't tell.

Tim said nothing else, but the crying sounds continued and Gibbs decided it would be better to sit quietly and see if Tim was going to need him or if he would do better alone. There were a few more Bert additions to the household noises, but after a while, Tim seemed to be asleep and Gibbs went back up to his bed.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Everyone was running late that morning. The power had blinked during the night and that meant some alarms didn't go off. Mitch had an early meeting and while he still woke up fairly early as he usually did, it wasn't early enough.

Rachel hurriedly got the kids up for school, making their lunches (with some help from Mitch) while they ate breakfast, tried to make sure they had everything they needed. There was a brief moment right before Mitch ran out the door that Rachel gave him a look and remembered her strange feeling from before.

"What's wrong, hon?" he asked, pausing in the middle of picking up his bag. "What is it?"

"It's nothing. It can wait."

"No, tell me."

Rachel smiled. "It would take too long to explain right now."

Mitch kissed Rachel quickly. "Tell me tonight?"

"Okay. Love you, Mitch!"

"I love you, Rach. Bye!"

He was gone and Rachel watched her kids get on the bus and then went to get the laundry going. She breathed a sigh of relief, both because the morning, for all its hectic scrambling, had not been a complete disaster...and she was going to talk to Mitch that night about her strange feeling.

When she was moving her first load into the dryer, she accidentally dropped one of Lucy's pink socks between the dryer and the washer. Sighing, she grabbed the broom to fetch it out.

She found more than Lucy's sock. There was an embarrassing amount of lint...

...and a gray sock.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Okay, McGee, have a seat," Gibbs said.

Tim sat down at the table in the conference room. He was obviously tense, anxious. Afraid. They had decided to stay away from Interrogation and use the Conference Room as someplace more open and free.

"Now, you know we'll be taping this, right?"

Tim nodded. "I know."

"Okay."

"How far do I have to go?" he asked.

Gibbs looked at Ziva, who was sitting beside him. Tony was waiting outside. They had decided that having Tim confronted by two men would be more likely to lead to another flashback. Tony hated being shunted to the background but recognized that it was the best way.

"We'll start at the very beginning, McGee."

"How far?" Tim asked again.

Ziva leaned forward. "Could you get us to the hotel, McGee? No further, just to the hotel?"

Tim met her earnest gaze and then looked at the table and was clearly thinking about it.

"Okay."

"Good. Take your time and tell us everything."

"You already know what happened at the bar."

"We need it from your perspective. There is much that we missed because we did not think it important."

Tim nodded and took a deep breath. "Okay."

There was a long silence. Ziva opened her mouth to urge Tim to speak, but Gibbs nudged her foot and then shook his head. They had to let Tim do this at his own pace...to the extent that was possible.

"We were at the bar. Ziva, Tony, Abby, Jimmy...and me. Just unwinding. Nothing special." Another pause. "We were joking around and Tony tripped me. I spilled my drink all over one of th-them. I felt bad about it. It was...an accident and I offered to pay for the cleaning bill. He said that if I could just help him get his friend back to the hotel, it would be enough...enough." Tim closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath...and then another. "I felt bad and I was dumb. ...and I agreed. I helped him. The white guy's wife...her name is Rachel...the other one said it. ...if he was telling the truth."

That was a surprise. Something new and unexpected. Ziva and Gibbs made eye contact while Tim continued to stare at the table. He shivered.

"You okay to keep going, Tim?" Gibbs asked softly.

Tim nodded.

"Yeah. ...I helped them to the hotel. It wasn't far away, not even a block. We went inside. There wasn't anyone at the counter. Took the elevator up...to the top floor." Tears began to fall down Tim's cheeks. "He...He was a really convincing drunk." He tried to laugh. "I was totally...taken in by it. That's...that's why I went into the room. I wouldn't have gone in there...not if I had even suspected that it was a trick. It was stupid! It was stupid of me! I'm so stupid!"

"No, McGee," Ziva said, but she may as well not have spoken.

"He opened the door and held it open...for me...to help the other one in...and...I...I helped him to the bed...so that...so that I could help him...lay down. ...and then he wasn't drunk anymore. He was...a lot stronger...and...and he threw me down onto the bed and..."

"That's enough, McGee," Gibbs said, interrupting. "That's enough for now. No more. Stop there."

"I...I could..."

"No, McGee. That's enough. That's all we asked of you. That's all you have to say right now."

Tim nodded and stared at his hands, shaking a little. Ziva stood up and walked around the table.

"McGee, I know I am not Abby, but may I give you a hug?"

Tim managed a tremulous laugh through the tears that had not fallen but had collected in his eyes and he nodded. Ziva tentatively put her arms around him and he actually leaned against her, crying on her shoulder. She nodded to Gibbs who stood and left them alone. After a few minutes, Tim started to calm down and Ziva implemented step two.

"McGee, can you tell me anything about their voices? Not what they said, but how they spoke? Did they have accents?"

Tim was quiet, and Ziva wanted to urge him on again, but she waited.

"Nothing...that really stood out. No southern drawl or...twang. No Bronx or Chicago kinds of pronunciations that we notice. ...but they were...both very well-educated." His voice was calmer. "They were...refined in how they spoke. Casual but...they enunciated their words. They...They were...really formal. Businessmen, I think."

"Thank you. That is all I wanted to know."

She felt Tim nod and he took another shaky breath.

"Ziva?"

"Yes, McGee?"

"Thank you."

"You are welcome." It didn't matter _what_ Tim was thanking her for. She could gladly say that he was welcome to whatever she had done.

"I don't blame you guys," he said softly.

"What?"

"It wasn't your fault. None of you. Not even Tony. I don't blame you for what happened."

That statement, so simple, touched Ziva more deeply than she could have ever guessed it would. It meant a lot to her.

"Thank you, McGee."

"You're welcome."

It was easier to hold him after that.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Sock in hand, Rachel went to the credit card statements. She generally made sure the credit card got paid off as necessary, but Mitch usually checked over everything after a business trip so that he could submit receipts if he needed to. This time, she went meticulously through every charge on the credit card. Mitch and Lane were both very careful not to abuse the company cards and they never charged personal items on them. So if Mitch _had_ bought new socks on this trip, it would be on the personal credit or debit cards. He rarely carried cash, either. They'd been married for long enough that she knew his habits, as he knew hers.

No indication of any clothes shopping, nothing from the hotel. Nothing. No sign of it. Her uncomfortable feeling increased and she called Patsy.

"Hey, Patsy, would you do me a favor? I know it's going to sound strange."

"_Okay. Shoot."_

"Could you tell me if Lane charged anything during their business trip that looks like it could have been clothes?"

"_Sure...but why?"_

"It's that sock. I found it today when I was doing laundry."

"_Rach...it's a _sock_! It's not women's underwear or anything like that. Mitch would never cheat on you!"_

"I don't think he is."

"_Then, why is this bothering you so much?"_

"I don't _know_! It's just that I can't get rid of it. I need to know."

"_Talk to Mitch!_"

"I'm going to. Tonight, but I can't wait. Could you just look?"

"_Sure."_

"Patsy, have you ever known me to fly off the handle for nothing?"

"_No. I'll give you that. You're way too calm sometimes."_

"And I don't feel calm now. Something is wrong. I just don't know what it is."

"_All right. Why don't you just come on over and we'll look together?"_

"Thanks, Patsy."

"_No problem. I hope you're wrong, Rachel."_

"So do I. I _really _hope I'm wrong."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Tim didn't know what to do with himself now. He didn't want to leave the conference room for fear of seeing the same mocking in the eyes of others that he had seen in the eyes of Agent Donovan. Ziva had left him, making sure that solitude was all right. It was. Tim felt...not good, but more settled than he had in a long time. He just didn't know what to do. He had said what was required of him and now...he felt as though there was nothing else he could do, nothing else that was of value. His only use was as a victim.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"There's nothing here, Rachel...but I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing."

Rachel sat back and stared at the computer screen.

"I wish _I_ knew. The sock isn't Mitch's, but it's not Lane's...and there's no sign that either of them bought it. So...why was it in Mitch's stuff? ...and why does it matter to me so much?"

"Why _does_ it?"

Rachel thought about it. "...because something like this has happened before."

"A sock?"

"No...it wasn't exactly the same, just something that didn't fit."

"What?"

"I got a call from a bank about a credit card bill, but it wasn't our bank and it wasn't the company. I checked the charges and they were hotel rooms in the cities Mitch and Lane had traveled to...but not the hotels they stayed at."

"When was _this_?" Patsy asked, aghast.

"Six or seven years ago."

"You never said anything."

"No...I talked to Mitch and...and the explanation made sense. I didn't like it but it made sense."

"What was it?"

"He said that...that he and Lane sometimes wanted to feel like they weren't on business trips, that it was a guys' vacation, a chance for them to party, but they sometimes drank too much and didn't want the company to know about it; so they got different rooms in different hotels. They were a lot cheaper and...and they were a bit embarrassed about telling us when it was rather frivolous. He sat down with me and showed me the last statement and told me exactly what they had done. I didn't like that he had done that, but he seemed so embarrassed and...and I figured that he wouldn't have made it up."

Patsy smiled. "Yeah, I can see that happening with those two."

"...but it never sat well, and for a while, I kept thinking about it and wondering if he was making it up, but I didn't have any reason to think he was and so I let it go and mostly forgot about it."

Patsy nodded in understanding. "But now there's another thing that doesn't fit and you can't see an explanation for it yourself. You know, Rach, it is possible that this really is just what Mitch said."

"I know...and I would think that myself...except..."

"What?"

"When I found the sock this time, I noticed something."

"What?"

"The sock has initials written on the toe. Written, not sewn or inscribed. There's a TM in the toe of the sock." She held it up. "Permanent marker. I do that with the girls' socks to tell them apart. Patsy...what...what I'm afraid of is that it's something I haven't thought of, that it's worse than I think and...and that Mitch will be able to come up with a plausible explanation...but there's no reason for those initials. Lane Richardson and Mitchell Graham don't need a sock with the initials TM on it."

"And if Mitch is doing something...then, Lane is a part of it, too."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim finally worked up the courage to leave the conference room after about an hour or so. He didn't want to sit at his desk and there was no one in the bullpen anyway. He quickly walked down the stairs and over to the elevator. Abby might let him sit in her office or something, just so he didn't feel so...so useless. There had to be _something_ he could do to get away from all this time he had to think, to remember.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Rachel nodded reluctantly. "They're closer than anyone else I know. Mitch wouldn't be doing something on their business trips that Lane didn't know about."

"You're right...but...but this sock is the only evidence of anything wrong," Patsy protested.

"I know. I know it's silly, but...but this is just _too _wrong. I can't explain it any better than that."

Patsy shook her head. "No, you're right. You're right, Rach. There is something wrong. I just wish there wasn't."

"Mitch is expecting to talk to me tonight. I have to tell him...something, but what?"

"I don't know, Rachel. I don't know what to say. I don't...I don't know."

"Should I lie? ...but that's what I'm accusing him of doing and I don't think I could do it convincingly."

Patsy laughed. "No, you probably couldn't. What if we...we sent the kids to a friends' house for the night. It's a Friday. They could do a sleepover...and we could talk it over all together."

"What are we going to say?"

"That we want the truth and we don't want them to pretend."

"How will we even know whether or not they're lying?"

"We won't tell them about the initials at first. See what they try to say about the sock itself."

Rachel laughed nervously. "I feel like a detective on those cop shows...getting ready to conduct an interrogation."

"I guess we kind of are...in a way. Most cops don't have to interrogate their spouses, though."

"I'm sorry, Patsy."

"Me, too."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Abby's lab was empty, but her music was playing which told Tim that she'd be back. He walked over to her computer and sat down. His hand knocked against the mouse, taking the monitor out of sleep mode.

He stared, stomach churning as he realized what Abby had been looking at before leaving.

He'd never seen what he looked like from behind, had never looked at himself in the mirror.

He only felt it. He never saw.

Until now.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Abby finally released Ducky.

"I'm sorry, Ducky. It's just...I've been trying to see if there are any cases that have similar patterns to Tim's...and those pictures. They make me sick!"

"I understand, Abigail. Would you like me to come up? Mr. Palmer is taking a hospital shift today and I do not have any customers waiting."

"Oh, would you?"

"Of course. You had but to ask."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"_Mitch, I think he's crying. Aren't you crying?"_

_Tim was shaking. He'd long since stopped trying to fight them, but he couldn't stop shaking._

"_He _is_ crying. Do you know why he's crying?"_

"_Why, Lane?"_

"_He thinks that you've been taking too long. He thinks that it's _my_ turn now and he doesn't think it's fair for you to have all the fun. Isn't that right?"_

_Tim began to cry. One of them grabbed his hair and pulled his head up._

"_See those tears? What are they for? Tell us. We want to know."_

"Tim...oh, no. Tim, are you all right?"

"_We're waiting. Aren't we right?"_

"_Y-Yes."_

"_Well, why didn't you say so? I was thinking you might be tired of it. Well, Mitch, since he's so eager for more. You ready?"_

"_Sure thing, Lane. Who was first? You or me?"_

"_I was, I think. That means you'll get at least one more turn."_

_The twisting of hands around his wrists. It hurt but he hardly noticed._

"Timothy?"

_Briefly, four hands, two on each wrist. Four knees on his back, pressing him into the hard hotel mattress._

_Then, one pair of hands, one set of knees...both vanished and Tim knew what was coming. He briefly tried to get away, but the hands around his bloody wrists tightened threateningly and the bare knees on his back increased their pressure. A warning._

"_Are you ready? Here I come!"_

Tim felt the hands on his arms and he shrieked in remembered pain. It had hurt so much. Every time.

"Tim! Tim, please...please, look at me."

Then, he was crying, sobbing, pushing the hands away and curling in on himself, trying to forget how it had felt, trying to forget every horrible, awful moment. Shrinking away from the male voice that was far too close to him.

"Abigail, speak to him. I will fetch the others."

"Me? I don't know what to do."

"Talk to him. You must be his lifeline. It doesn't matter what you say. Just talk to him. Connect him to the present and get him away from the past."

"Timmy? Tim...oh, no...no, Tim. Don't do that. Um...I'm going to touch your arms, okay? Okay, Tim?"

"_When is our flight?"_

"_We have a couple of days yet. Plenty of time to break them to our will. We'll win. Just like always."_

_He moved, just a little. An attempt to get up, assess the damage...but not to escape. Neither of them were holding him down. Over. It was over. It must be._

"_Oh, look! He wants more!"_

"No! NO!"

"Tim. Tim, it's Abby. Remember me? I'm not them. You're not back there. You're...well, you're on the floor of my lab. I'm really sorry I left the pictures up, Tim." Tears. "I didn't know you were coming down!"

"McGee, it is Ziva. Will you look at me?"

"_Well, I don't know if I have any more in me. ...oh, but look at this, Lane!"_

"_Perfect. The neck is the perfect size."_

Throbbing. Throbbing in remembered agony.

"Tim, those were just the pictures. It's not happening again."

Banging sound. Rhythmic. Painful. Like they had been.

"McGee, do not do that. Abby get behind him. Stop his head."

His head stopped moving. He didn't even remember that it had been. There was someone in front of him. He tried to back away.

"McGee, it is Ziva."

"_How many more times do you think he wants it?"_

"_You _do_ want more don't you?"_

"No! No, I don't want more! Leave me alone!"

"_I didn't hear you. I could have sworn he said he loved it so much that he wished we'd never stop."_

"_That's what I heard."_

"Gibbs, he's not hearing us. It's all my fault!"

"Abby..." Tim blinked. He couldn't see her but he had heard her voice.

"I'm here, Tim," Abby's voice said. Full of tears.

He blinked again. Ziva was there in front of him, gently holding his arms. When she caught his gaze, she smiled and nodded.

"Yes, McGee. We are both here. You are in no danger."

"It's too hot. Can't breathe," he gasped and began tugging at his shirt.

Ziva nodded. "Here, let me loosen it. You do not need to pull it off. It is not suffocating you."

"Their hands...on..."

"Tim, will you stop trying to bang your head?"

Tim turned his head to the side.

"Abby." Her mascara was streaked on her face. Her eyes were bloodshot.

"Yes. Tim. It's okay."

Tim looked around as the last vestiges of the flashback faded back to their rightful place in his memory. He was on the floor of the lab, wedged into the corner by the fridge. The stool in front of the computer had been knocked over. He felt something that had been wet on the side of his head, near his cheek. He brought his hand up and touched it. He winced and then looked at his fingers. They were red.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Don't you remember?" Abby asked.

Gradually, Tim's mind produced the memory of his immediate past. He began to breathe too quickly.

"Those...pictures..."

"Shhh..." Abby said, putting a gentle arm around him. "Shh, it's okay. Tim, it's okay. The pictures are gone. Don't go there again."

Tim wanted to freak out again as a release of the emotions he could feel inside him, but he gave into Abby's soothing voice and tried to calm himself down. Ziva stayed where she was, right in front of him, keeping his eyes on her.

"McGee, would it be all right if Ducky came and looked at your head?"

"Okay."

Ziva looked away and gestured. Then, Ducky was there with his doctor bag. Tim tensed a bit, but Abby was there and Ziva only shifted slightly. She was also there. ...and Tim knew that Ducky wouldn't hurt him.

"That's a nasty knock there, Timothy, but I don't think it needs stitches. Would you mind terribly if I cleaned it off?"

"No."

"All right." Ducky dabbed at the cut and then cleaned it with rubbing alcohol and then affixed a fly-bandage to his cheek. "That should do it."

"Thanks, Ducky," Tim said softly.

"Do you think you are up to standing, Timothy?"

"I don't know."

"I'll help you up, Tim," Abby said.

"Okay."

Carefully, slowly, Tim regained his feet, feeling a bit lightheaded but not too bad. His eyes were drawn involuntarily over to the monitor...but there was nothing on it. ...and he suddenly remembered. It took every bit of determination he possessed to dredge up the facts and separate them from what had happened.

"I remember their names," he said, exhaling loudly.

"McGee, you do not..."

"Lane...Mitch. Their names. ...and...and they're...they had a plane...or going to fly out...businessmen, like I said before."

The memory of what they'd been doing to him when that conversation had taken place began to hammer at his consciousness and he started to hyperventilate.

"No, Tim. It's all right. I'm right here. You're okay. It's okay."

Tim started to cry again.

"They wouldn't stop talking. I heard them."

"It's okay, Tim."

"Lane. Mitch. That's their names. That's who they are." Then, Tim finally abandoned himself to Abby's comforting embrace and sobbed like a child.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The kids had been ecstatic at the unexpected sleepover. It had been a simple matter to get them off to their friends' homes. Then...then, they had to wait for their husbands to get home. Patsy had decided to wait at her home and then come with Lane. Rachel was left, holding the incriminating sock...wondering what story lay behind it.

She didn't want to know.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

Tim was seated in Abby's office, trying to regain the small measure of equilibrium he had found that morning. It seemed impossible. Every time he started to calm down, he would remember...and he didn't _want_ to remember.

Then, there was a knock on the window of Abby's office. Abby was out running a search on the names, spreading the BOLO nationwide now that they could assume that these guys weren't local businessmen. Since they weren't getting anything on search in the Metro area, it was almost a relief to have that much more to search.

Tony stood at the window, his eyes silently asking if he could come in. Tim looked down, trying to keep his breathing even. Tony might be annoying, but he wasn't dangerous. Tim knew that, but his body insisted on not listening to the logic of his mind.

...but he nodded and then tensed up again when the door slid open and Tony walked in.

"Hey, McGee."

"H-Hey, Tony."

"Do you mind if I talk to you for a bit?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Go ahead. Talk."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

When Mitch called at four to say that he was going to be late getting home, Rachel wasn't sure whether or not she was glad of the reprieve. She called Patsy and found out that Lane had also reported a delay. They'd had some sort of workplace meltdown and everyone was on deck for who knew how long trying to put out the metaphorical fires.

She began doing what usually relaxed her: cleaning. There was always something to clean in a house with two girls...and a husband who conveniently forgot the meaning of the word _vacuum_. She smiled at the thought. She loved Mitch with all her heart. She had loved him since they first met. That's why all this was so hard to take. She'd never had the slightest hint that Mitch might not love her just as much. He was always so open with her about it, not like a lot of guys who thought that expressing emotion was a sign of weakness. Mitch had told her that his parents had been the kind of stuffy rich people one saw on television and he wasn't going to be like them. He wanted her to know that he loved her. So he said it almost every day.

This had to be nothing. Just like the last time...but there shouldn't _be_ last times in cases like this. Once...yes, she could accept it. ...but twice? Two things that needed a creative explanation? No. That's why it hurt.

The living room was clean, but the kitchen could use a definite once over...or twice over.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"What is it, Tony?" Tim asked, not able to make eye contact.

"I'm...I'm really sorry, McGee."

"For what?"

Tim heard a thump and that brought up his head. Tony had seated himself rather heavily in a chair. He looked rather dejected.

"I keep going over and over that night. If I hadn't tripped you..."

Tim winced and swallowed hard. Remembering falling over the two men led inevitably to what had happened after that. His hands clenched into fists.

"I'm really sorry," he said again.

Tim didn't know how to respond. It would be easy to get angry at Tony, to blame him for everything that had gone wrong, to make it all his fault. If he hadn't tripped Tim, they wouldn't have seen him, he wouldn't have... If Tony hadn't done it, he would have been safe, never knowing how it felt, never feeling that...never bearing the marks of that attack that seemed to have ripped his soul to shreds.

"Sorry...I'm being selfish, aren't I. You don't want to think about that."

"Tony...I...I can't think of anything else. I try...but all I can think of is that." Tim looked down at his wrists, still covered in bandages. "You...You tripping me...that's at least..." A quick deep breath. "...it didn't hurt." He felt the tears again. "That...part didn't hurt. Everything else did...but that didn't."

He couldn't look at Tony and Tony didn't say anything, didn't move. There was a long silence.

"You...didn't mean to. I know that. You didn't...didn't want me to..." The word stuck in his throat. "You didn't want that. I know. That's... I'm not..." Trying to focus on this and nothing else was hard. "I'm not afraid of you because of that. It's ...it's because I...keep remembering them." He started to tense up. "...and I forget that...that you're not them."

His hands started moving, almost of their own accord, towards his arms.

"McGee...don't do that," Tony said.

Tim looked at his hands.

"It feels better."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Yeah."

"That's better?"

"What they did hurts a lot more...at least when I hurt myself, that's all I feel: self-inflicted pain that covers up the...what they did."

"That's not better."

"Why not?"

"Because if you're doing it to yourself, you're only making the pain last longer. That's not better."

"Better source of pain. I'd rather mutilate myself than go through that again. I'd rather..." Tim forced his hands back to the desk. "I'd rather castrate myself than go through that again. It would feel better than what they did."

Another long silence.

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Is there anything I can do to help you besides stay out of the way? I have to ask because...man, McGee...I don't know what to do. I hate that I don't, but I see everyone else. They all seem to know. Even Gibbs and Ducky. I just... I want to be able to help, McGee, but I don't know how."

Another long silence. Tim thought about it. There were some things he'd like to ask for that couldn't happen. Tony wouldn't put him out of his misery no matter how much he begged for it. Tony couldn't turn back time. He couldn't take back what had happened. ...but Tim couldn't bear to have him nearby all the time. Gibbs and Ducky were hard enough.

"There's something you can do, Tony," he said finally.

"What, McGee?"

"You can...can find them. You can kill them...make sure they...they can't hurt me again." For the first time, Tim was angry. It was almost purifying in a way. The anger blotted out the fear. "That's what you can do. Rip them to shreds. Let them feel everything they did to me."

"McGee..."

"That's what you can do."

"We're going to find them, McGee...but I can't do that. ...and you can't want that."

"Why not?"

"Because that's letting them win. ...and I don't want to see them win. Do you?"

Tim looked up at Tony. "Haven't you noticed, Tony? They already have. If you killed them...at least they couldn't win again."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Patsy started flipping through the channels. She didn't usually watch a lot of television. There was too much to do, but right now, waiting for Lane to get home, she needed something mindless, something to keep her from fretting about what might be revealed. Lane was overly exuberant sometimes, but she'd never had any reason to think that he might be off the rails. He appreciated female beauty but he'd never shown the slightest interest in straying. He had told her once that all men look the first time. It's if a man looks again that you can take him to task. Every man can appreciate the female figure, but that's all. Appreciation doesn't require long first looks or repeated glances back. He had told her that the only woman he wanted to look at more than once was her. ...and she believed him.

She sighed. Almost, she called Rachel, knowing that Rachel would be cleaning. She and Rachel had become friends because their husbands were friends, but it was a wonderful friendship and she wouldn't trade it for the world. However, she needed to be here to meet Lane and get him over to talk with Mitch and Rachel. She'd have to be patient and wait.

Then, she thought she saw something on a news station and she went back to it. ...and she felt sick.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Boss, I'm worried about McGee."

"Only now?" Gibbs asked, distracted by Abby's gesturing.

"He told me that he wanted me to kill the guys who raped him. Basically, he said he wanted them to feel what he felt."

"Are you surprised?"

"That he went from nearly freaking out to furious? Yeah. Up to now, he's been afraid. Now, suddenly, he's angry?"

"Have you forgotten what he did to Agent Donovan yesterday?"

Had it only been yesterday?

"How he reacted to the rapist we arrested?"

"He was..."

"He was still McGee. We're going to have to watch out for stuff like that and help him keep it in control, but you shouldn't be surprised, Tony."

"Gibbs!" Abby called finally. "Get over here!"

Tim was still sitting in Abby's office. He wasn't moving. He had returned to his rapt gazing at his hands.

"What, Abbs?"

"I think I found something."

"What?"

Abby looked to the office and then scooted over so that she was blocking the monitor.

"I found a case...in New York City two years ago. A guy reported being raped by two men. Look at the photos of the injuries." She scooted over further and pushed a key. The pattern of the bruising and the worn wrists was the same, although Tim's were worse, more infected.

"Any suspects?"

"No. He never heard them speak to him and..."

"What?"

"I found some articles in the newspapers, some editorials and stuff. They were really nasty. Stuff about how even his family questioned whether or not it had really happened. He...He committed suicide six months after reporting the rape. They didn't have any evidence beyond his testimony. It's been a cold case for a while now." She removed the pictures from the monitor and resumed and more comfortable stance. "That was two years ago and it looks the same."

"Two years," Tony said. "These guys...have been doing this for two years?"

"Maybe more. That's just the first one that's come up...but it's in New York City. That means that Tim was right. These guys aren't necessarily local."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The phone rang and Rachel ran to answer it, her hands still a bit soapy.

"Mitch?"

"_No. Rachel, turn on the TV."_

"Patsy?" Rachel was surprised because Patsy was usually pretty calm and she sound ragged.

"_Turn on ZNN, Rachel. Now."_

"Okay."

"_Stay on the line."_

"Okay." Rachel was getting nervous now. She fumbled with the remote and the phone and turned on the television. She flipped to ZNN.

"_Wait for it. It will come up again."_

"Okay, but Patsy, what is it?"

"_I can't say it, Rachel. I can't. I can't believe it could be possible."_

"Good heavens, Patsy...what...?"

Then, she saw.

"_A nationwide bulletin is being issued in a search for two suspected rapists. The police renderings were made by man who claims that he was raped almost a month ago in DC. If you have seen either of these men, you are asked to dial the number at the bottom of your screen. Investigators suspect that these men are serial rapists and could be violent. Please do not approach. Simply inform police."_

The pictures on the screen were good likenesses.

"Oh...my...gosh...Patsy."

Rachel suddenly felt sick. She dropped the phone and ran into the bathroom.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Welcome, Tim. Congratulations on making it two days in a row," Dr. Warren said with a smile.

Tim smiled a little bit and sat down without speaking.

"Agent Gibbs mentioned that you had some difficulties today."

"I saw photos...of me."

"Which triggered a flashback?"

Tim nodded.

"Are you ready to tell me the one thing about your rape?"

"They said thank you...almost every time. ...and they said thank you when they called the next morning. ...as if I'd...done something great for them." Tim gagged a little.

"Do you need a garbage can?" Dr. Warren asked.

"I...I don't think so."

"Okay. I'll just set it beside you in case."

Tim nodded.

"Do you want to elaborate on it any more than that, Tim?"

He shook his head.

"Okay."

"Is it bad that I want them dead?" Tim asked suddenly. "Because I do. I want them to...to suffer, to feel how I feel."

"Is it bad? Do you _think_ it is?"

"Tony thinks it is. I'm not supposed to feel that way. I'm supposed to be the good guy who wants justice done. Wouldn't that be justice? Wouldn't that be the real justice, not what we do in the justice system?"

"An eye for an eye, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"It depends. Tim, who would be the person forced to inflict that punishment on the men who raped you? Would you do it?"

Tim blanched at the thought.

"Because someone would have to," Dr. Warren said. She wasn't lecturing. Her tone was very gentle, but her words were to the point.

Tim grabbed the garbage can and threw up. She helped him hold the can until he was done and then she got a nurse to take it away, gave Tim a bottle of water and let him sit for a few minutes and calm down.

"The fact that you can imagine it all too easily, Tim, should tell you why we don't do that in our justice system. Is it wrong for you to be angry, to hate them? No, not unless it consumes you. Anger at them is better than hatred directed toward yourself. Just know that, in order to get beyond what happened, you have to get beyond the anger as well. What that will take is different for everyone and we'll discover what's best together. For now...don't worry about being angry."

"They're monsters."

"Yes."

Dr. Warren agreed with him and let the silence fall for a few minutes; then, she moved on.

"Tim, let's talk about you being in law enforcement."

"Why?"

"You've told me the one thing I asked. That's enough. Let's move on to something else. Why did you want to be an investigator?"

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Patsy had come running over to Rachel's house. They sat together, watching the newscast, praying that no one else would see it...and then they looked at each other.

"What are we going to do?" Rachel asked. "This...I... It _can't_ be. There has to be a mistake. Somewhere. There has to be."

Patsy was pale. "I... We have to call that number, Rachel. We have to...tell them."

Rachel nodded and then laughed a little. "To think...I was most worried that..."

"They'd be having an affair," Patsy said softly.

"Yeah...or else they were paying for it. Not this. Not... It makes me sick."

"Do you want to call or should I?"

"I...I'll call. I have the sock after all."

"I can do it, Rach."

"No, Patsy. I'll do it."

With shaking hands, Rachel dialed the number.

"Hello...my name is Rachel Graham. I...I don't know how to say this."

"_What is it, ma'am?"_

"My husband is one of the...suspected rapists you're looking for." She got the words out and then started to cry.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Patsy hugged Rachel as she spoke with the man on the phone, telling him how they had seen the images on ZNN and recognized them as their husbands, how she had found a sock when unpacking her husband's bag, one that was not his, about the previous moments of uncertainty. The man was very professional and listened to everything she said. He had asked her permission to record the conversation and she had agreed. She told him about where Lane and Mitch should be at this time of the day. She told him about how she had a family, that Patsy had a family, that she didn't want this to become common knowledge. Was there any way to keep the identities a secret for a while? Would they be arrested? Would they come home? ...could they ever show their faces in public again? She cried and cried as she spoke to him, and to his credit, he didn't mince words, but he was very kind to her in her grief. As she wound down, he seemed able to tell.

"_Ma'am, is there anything else you need to tell us?"_

Rachel couldn't keep talking and handed the phone to Patsy who was slightly more composed.

"Hello, I'm Patsy, Patricia Richardson. My husband is Lane Richardson. Rachel is...she needs a minute."

"_I understand, ma'am. Is there anything else that you can think of to tell us now?"_

"I...I don't think so. I can't think of anything right now. It could be a mistake, couldn't it? It could be a mistake. The...whoever it was...he could have made a mistake about who he saw. That's possible, right?"

"_It's always possible."_

"But not likely?"

"_Not in this case, ma'am. I'm sorry."_

Patsy wiped away a tear. "What do we do now?"

"_You'll need to remain available. Someone will call both of you in the next few days to get you to come in and make a statement."_

"They're being arrested, aren't they."

"_Yes. They may already be by now."_

"What do we do?"

"_They'll probably call you since they have that right. They'll have to appear for a bail hearing and they may or may not be held without bail. The charges come from the D.C. area; so they'll have to be transferred there. People will be in touch with you...more than you probably want."_

"This is already more than I want. I don't want this to be real."

"_People are innocent until proven guilty in this country, ma'am. Doesn't always seem that way, but it is that way in the courts. They'll get a trial, chance to prove their innocence."_

"If they _are_ innocent," Patsy said, hating that she could believe this of her husband.

"_Yes, if they are innocent."_

"This is horrible."

"_I'm sorry, ma'am. I really am sorry."_

"Thank you. The numbers Rachel gave you are cell phones. We'll...probably go somewhere, our parents or something, but we'll be available if we're needed. Oh, I hope we aren't."

Rachel took a deep breath. "How do we tell the kids?"

"I don't know. What do we tell our families?" she asked.

"_I wouldn't try to hide it from them, if you don't mind a stranger's advice. It's on the news and while we'll try to protect your privacy...we can't guarantee the media won't get a hold of it."_

"What about our children?" Patsy asked, forgetting that this was a complete stranger who probably needed to be doing other things. He was so kind, seemed so understanding.

"_How old are they, ma'am?"_

"Four, five, ten and thirteen."

"_The younger ones won't understand, just tell them that their dads are gone for a few days. When you know more, you can tell them more. The older ones, they need to know something of what's going on because they'll face worse at school as things get around. Explain that their dads have been accused of a crime and will be tried for it. It will be hard, but if you're clear and if you're honest with them, things will be easier for them to deal with."_

"I thought the truth was supposed to make things better, not tear a family apart."

"_The truth...Mrs. Richardson...the truth isn't good or bad. It just is. We can't change what is true. The effects of truth can be good and bad...and both at the same time. If your husbands are guilty, and for your sake, I hope they're not, but if they are, they have left many victims in pain and the truth will help their victims heal...and will help prevent other victims. ...but for you, it's going to be painful, I know, guilty or innocent. You're going to have to face all this, and you both have shown a lot of courage in calling in with what you know. There are support groups for families like yours. When you know what's going to happen, I recommend you find someplace where you can get support. You'll need it, no matter what."_

"Thank you. Thanks for...for listening."

"_No one should have to face what you have to. Like I said, guilty or innocent, this is going to be hard for you."_

"I'm beginning to see that."

"_Just hold on to what you know. You know that you love your family and you know that you want to do the right thing. You've proven that already. You can get through all the chaos that will come. You can."_

"I hope so."

As she hung up the phone and hugged Rachel, Patsy wasn't so sure.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim went back to Gibbs' house after his session with Dr. Warren. He slept on the couch again, even though Gibbs had offered his bed. Tim just quietly shook his head and refused the offer. He didn't want to sleep in a bed. He still had Bert and kept him with him on the couch. As he lay there, he thought about what Dr. Warren and he had discussed. He didn't understand why she wanted to know about his choice to become an agent. Actually, she had seemed extremely interested in his desire to be in law enforcement at all.

It had made Tim himself think about it...and anything that distracted him from thinking about his recent past was a good thing.

The events which had led to his desire to become an NCIS agent weren't exactly happy ones but they had made him who he was...and that made them important. Going over those memories had been an interesting experience. ...but he didn't know why Dr. Warren kept asking him all these questions. He knew why he had to go to her. He knew why he _needed_ to go to her. ...so what was with the twenty questions about unrelated things? It couldn't just be to make him feel comfortable because, well, he'd never _really_ feel comfortable.

As he turned on his side to try and sleep, he felt himself tensing up because of his position on the couch. He grabbed Bert and squeezed him tightly. ...and then smiled a little at the sound he made. It helped. A little.

_Go to sleep, Tim. You're safe here. You know you are._

He didn't really listen to himself for a few hours.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Yes, thank you," Tony said and hung up the phone. He stared straight ahead without speaking.

"What is it?" Ziva asked. "What is wrong, Tony?"

"That was Agent Manning Fields out at the Northwest field office in Washington."

"Is he an acquaintance of yours?" Ziva asked.

"Never met him."

"Then, why was he calling you?"

"He wasn't. He was calling for Gibbs."

"Tony! You are not making any sense! Explain or I will kill you!"

"They caught the guys."

"Who caught what guys?"

"Lane Richardson and Mitchell Graham, suspected rapists. They were arrested last night at their place of employment...and were reported by their wives who saw the sketches on ZNN."

Ziva stared at him.

"What? They have been found? Arrested?"

"They're in holding in Washington until they can be extradited out here."

"So quickly?"

"I guess."

"Wow." Ziva sat back. "What do you think McGee will say? This is much faster than I had expected. He is...not..."

"Stable?" Tony suggested.

"Not enough to face them."

"He's...better...isn't he?"

"Is he? Do you think he could tolerate questioning?"

"We're way off from that, Ziva."

"Perhaps."

"At least they're caught. If Abby finds other cases similar to ours, maybe they'll have a lot more people to draw on in prosecution...and then it won't all be on McGee."

"I can only hope."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs was in the kitchen. He was getting ready to leave later than usual, but Tim had actually been asleep when he came down that morning. He tried to stay as quiet as possible to let Tim sleep a little longer. He heard movement behind him, but he decided not to turn. ...to let Tim have whatever security he could gain while in the same room as another male.

"Boss?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you know that I've wanted to be at NCIS since I was about ten years old? I know it wasn't NCIS then. It was NIS, but I wanted to be a part of it even then."

Gibbs was glad he was facing away from Tim. He didn't know how to react to the random statement.

"Really?"

"Yeah. ...because of my dad. ...and I haven't told them about what happened."

"Your parents?"

"Yeah. I don't want to...but if we ever find...them...I...I'll have to...but I don't know how. I can't even handle seeing...myself." Tim's voice became tight.

"You know what, McGee? I can barely handle seeing what happened to you. There's nothing wrong with that."

"You don't show it, though."

"That's because it didn't happen to me, McGee. It happened to you. You have complete license to be upset about it."

"I'm way past upset, Boss...and everyone knows it. Even now, when I've promised to help you...I'm not doing it because I care about other people. I'm doing it because I want revenge...but part of me knows that it won't help...but most of me doesn't care. ...and I know that I shouldn't feel that way...but I still don't care."

Gibbs turned around and saw Tim tense up for flight. It was instant and involuntary. Then, a few seconds later, he took a deep breath and tried to relax. Gibbs could see it all happen, but he didn't react, nor did he show the relief he felt at seeing Tim making an effort to control his reactions.

"You can feel that way right now, McGee. That's all right. There's a point when it might be a problem, but it's not right now."

"When is that? ...because I can't imagine letting this go."

"I don't know...but I think _you'll_ know."

"Just like I'll be satisfied with the end of a case?"

Gibbs smiled. "Not like that, but you'll know when holding onto what you feel right now is a problem. The fact that you have to ask tells me that you're not ready. You will be. Eventually."

"I almost didn't dream of them last night."

"Almost?"

"Yeah. Almost. Not quite." He turned away, obviously not willing to say what had happened when the dream shifted.

"You ready to go?"

"How much do I have to tell you today, Boss?"

"How much _can_ you tell?" Gibbs asked. "You got us to the hotel yesterday."

"I don't know, Boss. I really don't."

"Would it help if it was Ziva questioning you without Tony or me there?"

"It might."

"We'll try it, but let's have you tell how they restrained you. Okay?"

Tim's fists clenched. "Okay."

"Just that, McGee. No details about what they did. Just the method of restraint."

"Okay."

"You ready to go?"

"Okay."

"McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"Yeah, it is." Gibbs watched him stand there with his clenched fists and wanted nothing more than to beat the men who had done this to his agent to a bloody pulp...and then turn them over to Ziva and Abby. "Let's go."

"Okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony watched Gibbs step off the elevator...alone...and then Tim join him a bit later, having taken the stairs. He looked at Ziva.

"Boss?"

"What, Tony?"

"I got a phone call from Washington about an hour ago."

"And?"

"And..." Tony looked at Tim. "And we need to talk."

"About what?"

Ziva stood up and walked over to Tim. She looked at him, put a gentle hand on his arm.

"They have been arrested."

Tim looked at her in confusion.

"What?"

"The men who...attacked you. They have been arrested."

Tim's eyes opened wide. His mouth also opened, but he made no sound. He just stared at her, mouth working furiously as he tried to say something...but failed miserably.

"...take your time," he whispered.

"What, McGee?"

"They told me to take my time because I had...done so much for them..."

"They can no longer hurt you or anyone else, McGee," Ziva said earnestly. "They are in prison."

"Just like me..." Tim said.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

It took a week for all the paperwork to be filed and the agreements for extradition from Washington state to DC to be signed...and that was with everything being expedited. In that time, Tim stayed with Gibbs (they finally got Jethro from the kennel), continued to attend his daily sessions with Dr. Warren, mostly reluctantly but understanding their necessity. As the days passed, he managed to get through how he had been restrained, what had been used during the repeated rapes, how long it had lasted (as far as he could tell anyway). Every day brought about a breakdown of varying degrees. Some days less, some more. He always needed time alone to recover after each moment. His sessions with Dr. Warren continued as he told her one thing about his experience and then she asked him more questions, always about his choice of vocation and his interests and hobbies. He still didn't know why she was doing it, but the questions helped him think about other things and that was something he wanted. In many ways, things were looking up for him.

...but always, in the background, there was the continuing worry and fear about what he might have to do in confronting his rapists. There was still the anxiety when dealing with anyone male. ...and he still experienced frequent desires to forget it all and just withdraw. He never did, but he wanted to. As the day of the transfer came closer and closer, he felt more and more tense about everything. He didn't want them anywhere near him although he knew he would have to see them eventually.

It just wasn't enough to know that they'd be tried. Tim wanted them out of the way forever. He wanted to somehow be able to excise the whole experience from his mind and body. He wanted to know that they would be gone. Gone for good.

...that was what he wanted even as he knew it was impossible.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Rachel and Patsy gathered up their kids, sat them down and spoke to them. To their younger daughters, they explained that their daddies were going to be gone for a while and that they didn't know when they'd be back. Then, the older two were told that their fathers had been accused of attacking another man and hurting him badly. They explained that they were going to be staying with their grandparents for a while. Lafael (Lane and Patsy's oldest boy) and Maria (Mitch and Rachel's oldest girl) asked questions, wanting details. Patsy and Rachel did their best to explain without giving many details. They explained that the person had been attacked while Lane and Mitch had been in Washington, D.C. and that there was a lot of evidence against them, but that there would be a trial and they would try to prove whether or not they were innocent.

By far, the hardest question to answer was when Maria asked if they were guilty. In the end, all Rachel could say was that she hoped not but that she didn't know. It wasn't a satisfying answer to hear...and it wasn't satisfying to give, but Rachel couldn't bear to say that she believed it.

Lane and Mitch had called, of course. Both Patsy and Rachel had expected it...and it was awkward. ...and it got worse as the call continued. Rachel revealed that she and Patsy had been the ones to report them...and that hadn't gone over very well. She could hear the anger in Mitch's voice. Rachel had begged Mitch to explain what she couldn't and his response had been to berate her for doubting him, for suspecting him of committing such a heinous crime. Then, he had hung up. Lane hadn't been much better, wanting to know why Patsy would think he was that kind of man when she knew that he wasn't. She knew him, or so he had thought. Both women had been crying after hanging up.

What both Patsy and Rachel wanted was to pretend this had never happened, that they'd never seen the images on ZNN, that they'd never reported it. They knew it was impossible to ignore it.

They knew it...but it didn't stop them from wanting it.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

It was a typical evening in the McGee household with one exception: Sam had been home all day. He'd come down with a nasty bout of stomach flu. His digestive system had been sensitive since his paralysis in any case and they were always careful with anything that might upset the fragile balance. By seven o'clock that evening, he was feeling settled enough to try something simple like soda crackers and a bit of ginger ale. Naomi said that it was much easier to cook for him when he was sick, but in reality, she was just relieved that this most recent illness seemed to be as transitory as it should be. ...as it would have been for most people. For Sam, simple illnesses could often lead to a hospital visit if not tended to right away. They were careful and that kept them in a good place generally speaking.

"You are an excellent cook, Naomi," Sam said with a smile. He was still a bit pale and shaky. Even the strongest person didn't take vomiting very well.

"I do my best, Sam. You feeling up to it?"

"Feels fine to me. I'm actually a bit hungry. Thank goodness it's the weekend tomorrow. I don't know if I'd be ready to go back to school in the morning."

"You'd drag yourself there," Naomi said with a smile. "You know you would. Just like Tim would if he got sick."

Sam looked up from his rapt contemplation of the small stack of saltines. "Speaking of...when was the last time Tim called us? Or emailed us? Or texted or anything to indicate his continued status as a member of the human race?"

Naomi sat back and fiddled with a cracker. "You know...it's been a while. Maybe a month or more. That's strange now that I think of it. He's never gone so long that I remember. Maybe we should give him a call. You able to handle that?"

"I'm not dying, Naomi. Man, when I was younger, my parents would have made me go to school even if..."

"...it was a blizzard and you had to walk uphill both ways. I know...but you're not younger and you're lucky this didn't turn out to be something worse."

Sam gave a winning smile. "You know why I love you so much?"

"Why is that?"

He winked. "Darn. I was hoping you'd know."

Naomi chuckled and slugged him on the shoulder. "I'll get the phone. You can enjoy your crackers."

"You know, Naomi, you don't have to eat the same thing I do. You're not sick."

"I just want to be one with my husband," she called back over her shoulder.

"Then, why didn't _you_ get sick, too? Then, we'd really be united."

"Then, who would take care of you?"

"You would, of course," Sam said with an impudent grin.

"Don't make me regret doing it at all," Naomi said as she walked back to the table. "Eat your crackers. Stay away from mine. I put butter on them. I'll call our son."

"Tell him that 'spiteful words can hurt your feelings, but silence breaks your heart.'"

Naomi rolled her eyes and dialed.

"_Agent Gibbs."_

Naomi looked at Sam in surprise and he swallowed his mouthful, the laughter fading from his eyes.

"Agent Gibbs...This is Naomi McGee. Why are you answering my son's phone?"

Sam's eyes widened and he rolled away from the table to grab the extension.

"_McGee asked me to answer it for him."_

"Are you working on a case?"

"_Not exactly."_ Then, he was obviously not talking to her any longer. Sam clicked on in time to hear Gibbs talking to Tim. _"It's your parents, McGee."_

The response wasn't audible.

"_No, you need to talk to them. ...yeah, I'll stick around. If you need me to talk to them after, I will. ...Just talk to them, McGee."_

Sam met Naomi's gaze and raised his eyebrows in confusion. Then, Tim came on the line. It was instantly obvious that something was wrong.

"_Hey,"_ he said.

"Tim, what's going on? What's wrong?"

"_Nothing's wrong, Mom. Nothing."_

Gibbs' voice could be heard but not the words.

"_Okay...something's wrong."_

"What is it?"

There was a long silence. They could hear Tim breathing into the phone but no words.

"Tim?" Sam asked.

A shaky breath, let out in an equally shaky laugh.

"'_Silence is the most powerful scream.'"_

"'There are times when silence has the loudest voice.' Leroy Brownlow. What is it?"

"_Have you been watching the...the news?"_

"As much as we usually do."

"_Last week? Thursday?"_

"Yes, I guess. Why?"

There was another long silence.

"_I just sent you a link to a news story."_

"Tim...why won't you just tell us?" Naomi asked. She stood up to grab the laptop from the study.

"_I can't."_

Another unintelligible comment from Gibbs.

"_No, Boss. I can't."_

"Okay, Tim. I'm checking my email." Naomi saw the message from Tim. All that was in the message was a link. She clicked on it and turned the screen so that Sam could see it as well. As soon as she saw the title _Two men arrested for DC gang rape_, she knew why Tim couldn't tell her what was going on, but she couldn't accept it. Her mind just revolted at the thought.

Neither of them could speak. Tim said nothing.

"You're investigating the case?" Naomi asked, knowing that wasn't it.

"_You know, Mom."_

"Tim..." Naomi couldn't speak. She felt ill.

"_Do you believe me?"_ Tim asked softly.

"Why didn't you tell us before? This says it happened over a month ago."

"_Do you believe me?"_

"Of course, Tim. If you say it happened...but why didn't you tell us?"

"_I couldn't..."_ They heard Tim breathe faster and then distantly...

"_McGee, you okay?"_

"_I can't...Boss... please."_

"_Okay. Give me the phone. Go outside. Jethro could use the attention."_ Then, Gibbs' voice grew louder. _"Sorry. He couldn't keep talking about it. Today was a rough day for him."_

"What happened, Agent Gibbs?" Naomi asked, feeling as though there wasn't enough air in the room. "How? _Why_?"

"_Why? I can't tell you what was going through the minds of those... I can't tell you that and I'm glad. All I can tell you is that McGee more than likely wasn't the first person they did this to. We've found four other cases that are so similar it seems impossible for it to be a coincidence."_

"These men have done this before?"

"_We think so."_

"Why has it taken so long? Why hasn't Tim told us anything?" Naomi asked.

"_It took him a week to tell us...and even then, he only did so because he had an infection from...from the rape and collapsed at work."_

"Why didn't anyone tell _us_?" Sam asked. "We're his parents. We should be his emergency contact. Why weren't we informed by anyone?"

"_Honestly? Because I didn't think of it. Once I found out...I just didn't think of anything outside of what had happened to McGee. Neither did anyone else. If McGee thought of it, he certainly didn't act on it. It's been really hard to get him to talk about it in any capacity. I'm sorry. You should have been told."_

Naomi shook herself. Recriminations weren't going to help anyone. "No, Agent Gibbs. It's all water under the bridge. We can't accuse you of thinking of us when you've only met us once. What's going to happen now?"

"_The two men have been extradited to DC. They'll be here tomorrow, more than likely. Then, they'll be arraigned. This is going to be hard. Hard on McGee. He's only barely getting through every day right now. He was..."_

"What?"

"_We didn't realize just how bad he was at first and he started drinking himself into a stupor every night just to deal with it. If you're angry, you couldn't be as angry as we were at ourselves. He's staying with me now. That hasn't solved everything. It may not have solved anything but the fact that he's not allowed to be alone...and that was a big problem. He's not really comfortable here, but he's dealing with it."_

"Can you give us any details, Agent Gibbs?"

"_What kind of details? Do you really want to know what was done to your son in detail?"_

"Could it be any worse than what I'm imagining?" Naomi asked.

"_He was raped, ma'am. He was raped over and over until the two men couldn't anymore themselves. Then, they decided to use bottles on him until he passed out from the pain and the severity of the attack. They beat him into submission. They held him down on a hotel bed for so long that he feels more comfortable sleeping on my old ratty couch than in a bed. Do you really want to know about all that?"_

Naomi felt Sam's hand on her arm and she figured that she probably was about as pale as he was.

"How is he?"

"_Better than he was, but not good. We just finished his statement yesterday and it's taken nearly two weeks because he just can't tolerate talking about it yet. These men are wealthy and they'll be able to hire a good lawyer. This is going to be hard. Really hard."_

"Should we come?" Sam asked.

"_I don't know. That's up to McGee."_ There was a pause. _"I don't think you should ask him tonight. I'll have him call you tomorrow."_

"Is everything all right?"

"_No, but it's okay. I'd better go. Good-bye."_

The phone disconnected. Naomi set it down before she dropped it.

"Our son..." she whispered.

"At least he's not alone."

"He was _raped_, Sam!" Naomi burst out. "Our son was _raped_! It doesn't matter whether or not he's alone! Do you see what–?"

"Havelock Ellis."

"I'm not in the mood for a quote right now, Sam," Naomi said.

Sam held onto her arm. He spoke very calmly and firmly. "'Pain and death are part of life. To reject them is to reject life itself.' This is not pain I want Tim to have felt or to continue to feel, but to deny it is impossible. It's already happened and we have to deal with it. Tim has already been dealing with it...and his having someone to lean on _does_ matter. It sounds like he needed that. If he didn't call us and tell us, he must have had a reason for it. A good reason? Probably not, but it was a reason that convinced him. We know now...and you heard what frightened him the most?"

"Whether or not we believed him."

"Walter Anderson. 'We're never so vulnerable than when we trust someone – but paradoxically, if we cannot trust, neither can we find love or joy.' Tim was already too vulnerable and he couldn't stand the idea of us not believing him."

"Tim wouldn't lie about that."

"But you know people won't believe him. This is a hard thing, like Agent Gibbs said."

"Then, we'll have to shut them up."

Sam smiled.

"We have to be there for our son...whatever that entails, even if it means not saying anything at all. Sometimes... 'silence is a source of great strength.' Lao Tzu."

Naomi smiled. "Can _you_ be silent?"

"If I must. Tim's not alone down there. He has people helping him. Let's just wait and see if he wants more than our silent support. Okay?"

"Okay, Sam."

"Now, the crackers are getting stale."

Naomi smiled even as tears came to her eyes.

"We can't have that."

"Let's eat."

"Okay."

They sat close together at the table and ate the boring meal. It was only their closeness that made the horrible news tolerable.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"McGee, open the door!" Gibbs called, knocking on the bathroom door.

"Leave me alone."

Gibbs sighed. He had heard the door close, but he hadn't made any kind of connection until he'd realized that Tim wasn't coming out.

"McGee!"

"Go away!"

"McGee, if you don't let me in, I'm going to have to open the door anyway...and I don't want to do that. What's going on in there?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying. What is it?"

A long silence. Gibbs took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"McGee, what are you doing?" he asked, keeping his voice calm.

A muffled sob warned him before Tim spoke.

"I just...they wouldn't... I couldn't stop feeling them."

Gibbs closed his eyes.

"McGee, it's okay. Stop it and open the door."

"No," Tim whimpered.

"Yes. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to yell at you. Just open the door."

Another long pause.

"I bled on your bathmat."

Gibbs winced.

"That's okay. If we clean it now, it will come right out."

Another long silence.

"McGee?"

Then, he heard movement. Tim opened the door. Gibbs had to stifle another sigh. Tim had been doing a lot better the last couple of days, but knowing that his rapists were coming had put him on edge. He just wasn't dealing with it well, but Gibbs had _thought_ he was doing all right. Now...with blood running down from his wrists, reopening wounds that had almost been healed, Gibbs could see that Tim had given in again.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know...I shouldn't have...but I just... They wouldn't go away."

Gibbs was beginning to wonder if they ever would.

"It's okay, McGee. Let's just get you cleaned up. All right?"

Tim nodded and allowed Gibbs to help him rebandage his wrists and then clean up the bathroom.

"I'm sorry," Tim said again, when they were done.

"It's okay, McGee."

"I'm sorry."

"McGee...the men who raped you are going to be here. You're going to come under a _lot_ of scrutiny. I know you don't like it and you don't want to think about this...but you have to learn how to deal with it without hurting yourself."

"What if I can't?"

"You have to try."

Tim looked at his newly-bandaged wrists...and then he looked up at Gibbs.

"Why try when you've already lost?"


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

"You haven't lost, McGee," Gibbs said.

Tim felt so listless as he sank down onto the toilet seat. Right now, he felt nothing. He didn't feel their hands on him. He didn't feel afraid. He felt...like nothing. ...and while he had assumed that anything would be better than what he'd been feeling before, nothing was _not_ better. This nothingness left him wondering why he was even bothering. As he had pulled off the bandages and let the blood run, he had looked and wondered why. He'd been trying, but now...in this miasma of confusion, he didn't know _why_ he'd been trying. What was the point? It was clear that every step forward was accompanied by at _least_ two steps back, meaning that he wasn't progressing at all. He wasn't doing anything right...or rather, what he _was_ doing right was lost in the all the things he was doing wrong.

The hand on his arm made him tense and shy away, even though he knew it could only be Gibbs.

"Tim, come on."

"Where?" he asked dully.

"With me. Come on."

Tim allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He followed Gibbs downstairs, out to the car and he sat in the passenger seat as docilely as a...a cow. He leaned against the window, not even able to muster any interest in where they were going. He felt empty. Nothing.

Gibbs didn't try to talk to him. He just drove, and Tim did spare a thought to wonder what was going through Gibbs' head. He probably didn't like having Tim ruining his home. Carpet worn out. Bath mat bloody. No one would enjoy this kind of thing. He knew that he wasn't pleasant to be around. He didn't like being around himself. Why would anyone else want to be around him?

The car came to a stop and Tim looked at his surroundings...and felt a slight curiosity.

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"Come on," Gibbs said, not answering.

Tim got out of the car and looked at the prison walls.

"Boss. Why are we here?"

"Come on, McGee," Gibbs said.

Tim shook his head, hand clenching the car door. A horrible thought had just occurred to him.

"No."

Gibbs walked around the car, his approach slow and completely in Tim's view. They were separated by the car door. Gibbs didn't look angry, threatening or anything...other than earnest.

"Yes."

"Don't. No."

"Come on, McGee," he repeated. No impatience, just a gentle request. ...and Gibbs was _never_ gentle.

Tim shook his head again, unable to make his hand let go of the car door, unable to get himself to move whether it be to run away, to sit in the car again or to go with Gibbs. Tim was frozen in place, unable to fathom why Gibbs would be doing this to him.

Gibbs walked around the car door.

"I'm going to touch your hand, McGee," he said.

Tim just shook his head again, not protesting the requested contact, only the terrible prospect he could now see in his immediate future. Gibbs carefully removed Tim's white-knuckle grip on the car door.

"Come on," he said once more.

Tim walked forward, not because he wanted to, but because he couldn't..._not_ follow Gibbs, even as every particle of his being screamed in protest at what was coming.

The two men walked into the prison. If any words were spoken, Tim didn't hear them. He didn't hear anything beyond the buzzing that had taken over his brain, stopping up his ears with cotton and turning him into a mindless automaton. Tim walked with Gibbs through hallways to a room. A room with a one-way view.

"In here, McGee."

Tim walked, not wanting to go, knowing what he'd see, but powerless to step back, to avoid what he knew was coming.

Gibbs positioned him in front of the mirror and then said something incomprehensible. Tim had no idea whether Gibbs was talking to him or to someone else. Tim couldn't see anything except what was directly in front of him. He couldn't hear anything. All he could do was stand.

Then, through the one-way mirror, he saw a door open and two men walked in. He tried to step back, to flee, but Gibbs was there, his hand unexpectedly firm on Tim's arm. Tim could have escaped but he couldn't at the same time.

"Look at them, Tim. Look at them now."

Tim looked. He could no sooner have turned his head or closed his eyes than he could flap his arms and fly.

He would have known these two men if they had been dressed in masks with the lights off. He knew them by how they moved, by their build. He would have known them by their voices if he could have heard them now...which he couldn't. Gibbs' was the only voice he could hear. There was no other sound in his world as he stared at the two men who had destroyed him.

They looked so...so _normal_. They didn't _look_ like the monsters they were. They didn't look like fiends. They didn't look like the kind of men who would take pleasure in assaulting a stranger. They didn't look like the kind of men who would have it in them to rape anyone.

...and that made them the most horrific sight Tim had ever seen.

In fact, the only difference between the way they had looked...before...and the way they looked now was...

"They're not smiling," he whispered, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud.

"They're in prison, McGee. Of course, they're not smiling. They've been arrested. They're caught and they know it."

Tim took a step..._toward_ the mirror. He didn't know why. He didn't want to be close to them. He didn't want to risk them even suspecting that he was this close to them. He didn't want them to ever be near him again. He tensed up as the memories of a month past crowded into his head.

He heard a strange sound as he watched their mouths moving silently. No voices. One of them was pacing back and forth, rubbing his hands together incessantly.

_...the same hands that held him down..._

The other was sitting, _his_ hands clasped tightly together, resting on the table in the room.

_...the same hands that grabbed his wrists..._

Both men looked upset. Their mouths weren't smiling. Their eyes weren't alive with excitement, with arousal. Their eyes weren't reflecting triumph. Their postures weren't that of the conquerors they had been.

Still there was that strange sound he could hear.

He took another step...forward.

These two men. How was it possible that such normal-looking men could have destroyed him so thoroughly? How was it possible that he could have been attacked by them? How? Why?

"Why?" he whispered.

It wasn't enough to know that they were there. It wasn't enough to see them confined.

_What will be enough?_

He hated them as much as he feared them. He hated what they had done to him. He hated that they looked so normal. He hated that they were standing there...in the same room. That no matter how miserable they might be at this moment, they couldn't come even close to knowing how _he_ felt.

_Nothing is enough._

Nothing ever could be, he realized suddenly. Nothing. There was no way that these two men could _ever_ suffer enough to understand how _he_ felt. Never. It was an impossibility.

_So what now?_

Still that strange sound.

He took one more step...forward.

He was now nearly touching the glass. It was as though they were magnets and he was a single iron filing. No power to resist the pull no matter how much he might want to.

He felt rather light-headed.

The man who had been pacing sat down beside the other and spoke to him. Still there were no voices Tim could hear. None.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his arm, pulling him away from the glass and pushing him down onto a chair. Still, Tim couldn't take his eyes off them.

"Snap out of it, McGee."

A voice. He knew that voice. Tim was sure that he knew who it was.

"Just breathe normally."

Breathe normally? What did _that_ mean?

Slowly, inextricably, Tim felt himself being turned away from the window into the tormented recesses of his soul. At first, his body turned but his head still faced the window. ...but the turning continued until he could no longer look at them. He turned his head back into proper alignment with the rest of his body.

There was Gibbs, looking at him with definite worry.

"Breathe, Tim."

Tim took a deep breath and the strange sound stopped.

_That was me. I was making that noise._

Tim realized now why he felt lightheaded. He'd been hyperventilating.

"That's better."

Tim began to turn back to the window, but Gibbs shook his head.

"No. You've seen them, Tim. You've seen where they are. That's enough."

"It's never enough," Tim said and couldn't keep looking at Gibbs. He wished that Gibbs would step back a few steps. He would feel better if Gibbs wasn't so close to him.

"But it has to be."

"You're too close," Tim whispered.

Instantly, Gibbs stepped back and crouched down so he was still at eye level.

"Better?"

Tim nodded without speaking.

_I asked him to move and he did._

Why did that matter so much? Tim didn't know, but it did. It mattered that Gibbs had listened to him. It mattered that Gibbs was crouched there on the floor, waiting for Tim's sluggish brain to catch up to what was going on around him. It mattered that Gibbs had brought him here, even if a part of Tim wanted to yell at him for doing that to him. It mattered that Tim was sitting on this chair and not rubbing at his arms or scratching his wrists. All of that mattered even though not an hour ago nothing had mattered. A contradiction? Hypocrisy? Something else? Tim didn't know.

As he sat on the chair staring at Gibbs, wondering what was supposed to happen next, he couldn't help but feel there was something he _should_ be doing...but he didn't know what it was, didn't know how to find out...and didn't have enough in him to care to try.

"Let's go, McGee."

Tim nodded and stood. Irresistibly, his eyes moved back to the window. He watched as a guard opened the door and beckoned to them. Suddenly, Tim had to move. Before Gibbs could stop him, he walked, almost ran, out into the hallway. He stopped and watched as the two men walked out of the room. One of them glanced to the side, having noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. There was a moment in which he looked blankly at Tim, as if he couldn't quite remember why Tim looked familiar.

Then, as Tim stared at him, not knowing what else to do, his eyes widened and he nudged his friend who also looked at Tim.

The three men looked at each other in silence, all finally recognizing each other...and all apparently unaware of what they should do about it.

The guard made the decision for them. He tapped them both on the shoulders and led them down the hall, away from Tim as he stood there watching them recede. Finally, they vanished around a corner.

Tim then let Gibbs lead him out of the prison. Tim walked back to the car but started shaking as he reached for the handle and instead leaned his head on the cool metal.

"Why, Boss?"

"Why what?"

"Why bring me here? Why make me see them?"

"You need to see them for what they really are."

"What's that?"

"You tell me. What did you see?"

"The men who destroyed me...who just forgot to kill me in the process."

"What did you really see?"

Tim didn't know what it was Gibbs was looking for. He felt tired, as if he'd been sprinting for miles. He felt shaky. He felt a return of his anxiety, his fear, his horror. He didn't want to answer questions right now.

"McGee?"

There was no way to answer the question and Tim didn't like that Gibbs kept hounding him to answer. He didn't _want_ to.

"What did you see, McGee?"

Anger and fear forced the answer out of his mouth...and not silently either. He turned around and shouted at Gibbs.

"I saw the men who raped me, okay?" He turned back to the car quickly as the too-ready tears sprang to his eyes.

"Exactly."

"Exactly, _what_?" Tim spat, staring at the roof of the car rather than look at Gibbs.

"You saw the _men_ who raped you. You didn't see monsters or some sort of superhumans. They're human beings."

"I know that," Tim said.

"Do you? Do you _really_ know that, Tim?"

Tim spun back. "Look, what do you _want_ from me? Huh? What is all this for? What do you think I'm going to get out of this?"

Gibbs didn't flinch from Tim's anger. He just blinked calmly and said one word.

"Reality."

"What?"

"I want you to see what's _really_ there. I want you to see how strong you are, how weak _they_ are, how much more you have to gain. Most of all, I want you to see that you don't have to define your whole life by the actions of those two men."

Tim couldn't answer that.

"Reality, Tim. Look at reality and see what's going on around you because there's so much you're letting slip away simply because you can't bring yourself to see reality."

Then, Gibbs walked around to the driver's side and got in the car. Tim couldn't move for a few seconds but then he got in the car.

The ride back to Gibbs' house was silent.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Gibbs held back a sigh of relief when Tim got back into the car. He'd never admit it, but he had been worried...worried that he'd pushed Tim too far, too fast. But Tim had shown himself at least able to tolerate what Gibbs had inflicted on him. That was a definite relief.

"Do you think it helped?" Tim asked as they pulled up to Gibbs' house.

"I don't know. Did it?"

Tim wouldn't look at him. He just opened the car door and got out. Instead of walking to the front door, he walked around to the back of the house. Gibbs followed him. Tim sat down on the back steps and leaned his head on one hand.

"What am I supposed to do?"

"Why ask me?"

"Because I can't think of anything to do. It's...there's...just nothing."

"You start living again, McGee," Gibbs said.

"No," Tim said, shaking his head. "No, that's not the answer."

Gibbs looked at him in surprise. Did Tim mean what he feared he meant or was it that Tim was looking for a specific answer?

"Then, what is, McGee?"

"I don't know." Tim looked at him, fear in his eyes. "There's an answer. I don't know what it is." He sighed. "There's going to be a trial."

"Yes."

"I'll have to testify."

"More than likely."

"How do I do that?" Tim asked. "How do I do that, Boss?"

"Carefully. With lots of practice."

"They'll try to make me look stupid. You know they will. That'll be the only way that they could discount my testimony. ...because I saw them, Boss!" Tim's voice started to rise dangerously. "I saw them! I felt them! I...I _know_ them... I can't forget that! And..." One of his hands strayed to his arms...stopped and then fell to the steps. "...and I'm not okay, Boss."

Gibbs thought about what to say, but amazingly, Tim wasn't done talking. Tim, who for the last month had been reluctant to say anything about what had happened, was not finished.

"I know it. Everyone knows it. I wake up in the morning and...and I wonder why I bother. I look at myself in the mirror and all I can see is..." Tim stopped and when he started again, he had changed what he was going to say. "...and I don't feel like myself. I don't act like myself. ...and I see them more than I see anyone else." Tim looked up at Gibbs, the hopelessness in his eyes as painful as any wound could have been. "What's the answer? It's not just living because I'm already doing that...and, Boss? ...it's not enough. Living isn't enough. This trial, getting them put away...it's not enough! Nothing can _ever_ be enough! Not with what happened to me! ...so what's the answer? Boss, what is the answer?"

Gibbs didn't know what to say, but he could tell by the way Tim had asked the question that being able to answer it was vitally important. As the silence lengthened, Tim's expression became desperate...and the desperation was worse than the hopelessness.

"Tell me why it is that I shouldn't just get a gun and blow my brains out! Tell me why I should bother waking up tomorrow! Tell me why I should keep trying to see anything more than all this! Tell me why it's worth feeling all this! Tell me the answer!"

Tim hands were clenched in tight fists and it was clear that he was getting worked up into another frenzy, the kind that would require some sort of outlet, something to get rid of the pain, even for a moment.

"What do you see when you look in the mirror, Tim?"

"What?"

"What do you see in the mirror?"

Tim was silent.

"What do you see?" Gibbs asked gently. All through this he had kept himself from approaching Tim. He stood back and waited. It was strange, but the more he interacted with Tim, the more he realized how important respecting his fear of physical contact was.

The fearful energy Tim had expressed was suddenly gone, as if the question had leeched it from his body.

"'I see before me the Gladiator lie,'" Tim whispered.

"What?" Gibbs asked, but Tim didn't seem to hear him. He had passed over into another realm of emotion, a place Gibbs couldn't enter. He waited.

"'He leans upon his hand - his manly brow  
Consents to death, but conquers agony...'"

It sounded familiar, but Gibbs couldn't even fathom where he'd heard it before.

Tim's eyes were staring fixedly at the ground, his hands still clenched into tight fists.

"'And his drooped head sinks gradually low -  
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow  
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,'" Tim recited, his voice not quite a whisper.

Gibbs was sure that this was a poem, but he didn't know it, or if he did, he hadn't heard it in so long that he'd never be able to pull the reference out of his mind.

There were no tears this time. Just Tim reciting something that somehow revealed what he saw in the mirror.

"'Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now  
The arena swims around him: he is gone...'"

Gibbs tensed as he understood what Tim was saying about this gladiator. Dying. Death in front of an arena.

"'Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the _wretch _who won.'" The disgust and loathing that colored those final words said more about what Tim saw in the mirror than the words themselves did.

Gibbs waited, sensing that Tim would explain himself...given space and time.

"Lord Byron. _Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_. ...the Dying Gaul was his inspiration for that part."

"The Dying Gaul?" Gibbs asked, mostly to play for time.

"A statue. A naked Gaul who is slowly bleeding to death. He sits on the ground with his belongings, his weapons scattered uselessly around him. All he's wearing is a torc around his neck...and it did him no good. It didn't stop the wound. A useless memento of a life he doesn't even have anymore. There's nothing he can do to stop his death. He's dying on his shield...but he's still dying. Alone. On the battlefield. Defeated."

"That's what you see?"

"More or less." A humorless laugh. "I don't usually recite the poem though."

"Maybe you should...and pay attention to what Byron said."

"What's that?"

"What was the first part?"

"'I see before me the Gladiator lie.'"

"No, after that."

"'He leans upon his hand - his manly brow  
Consents to death, but conquers agony.'"

"That."

"What about it?"

"Yes, he's dying...but he conquered the hardest thing to conquer."

Tim looked up at Gibbs.

"He conquered agony, McGee. Yeah, he had to die, but he won."

"By dying."

"No," Gibbs said, forcing himself to smile even as his heart clenched in fear. He would never show it, but he was afraid that Tim's very life was on the line here and that if he couldn't say the exact right thing, Tim would be lost. "Not by dying. He _consented_ to die, but he conquered. He didn't win by dying. He won...and died as a separate event."

"You didn't even know the poem."

"Doesn't mean I'm not right."

Another long pause.

"They didn't remember me."

"Who?"

"Them. They didn't remember. I knew them in less than a second. They looked at me and...and had to think. I wasn't important. I was just..." Tim swallowed. "...someone who...provided a service for them. They thanked me for my services...like I was...like...like I'd had a choice. Like I'd _wanted_ to help them. Like I'd...and then they didn't even remember."

"Their mistake."

"I don't even know what mistake they _did_ make. How did they get found?"

"Their wives saw the sketches you made of them and called."

"They're married?"

"With kids."

There was a different expression in Tim's eyes as he considered this. It wasn't a pleasant consideration but it was infinitely better than that horrible emptiness Gibbs had seen before.

"Kids?"

"Yeah."

"...but they...they r-r-raped_ me_."

Gibbs crouched down so that he could be at eye level with Tim. He still didn't think it was a good idea to approach.

"Rape doesn't have a whole lot to do with sex, McGee. It's about power. It's about being able to dominate another human being."

Tim shook his head.

"No. It's not just about domination. The way they...they talked...about me...to me..." Tim closed his eyes tightly and breathed shallowly for a few seconds. "...they didn't want to dominate. They wanted to destroy. Their whole...whole...they wanted to ruin me. They wanted me to...to be broken." He opened his eyes and looked at Gibbs. "They wanted me like this. ...and I don't want to be like this. I want to...to be..."

"What, McGee?" Gibbs asked, keeping his voice soft.

Now, tears came to Tim's eyes.

"I don't...don't w-want to be afraid of people touching me. I don't want to...to feel like I'm being...suffocated whenever there's someone close. I don't want a hug to feel like an attack. I don't want to be alone like that."

Now, it was time to move. Gibbs knew it like he knew a lot of things. It was a gut feeling. Now was the time that he could move closer. Slowly, he stood and walked over to where Tim was sitting on the steps. His fists were so tightly clenched that his knuckles were white. Equally slowly, he sat down beside Tim. He was close enough that it would take very little movement for him to touch Tim. ..but he didn't make that move. He sat with that minuscule space between them. Then, he waited. Tim didn't move away...but he didn't move at all.

"You don't have to be alone like that, Tim. Not now. Not ever. I'm right here...and I won't hurt you. I'll wait right here until you're ready."

True to his word, Gibbs sat on the steps as the minutes crept slowly by. He was silent, unmoving as Tim sat beside him, tense as a bowstring, eyes closed. Two minutes became ten minutes. Then, half an hour. Then, an hour. Gibbs never moved, never spoke. Tim didn't speak either. It was all about waiting until Tim was ready to reach out. He didn't have to reach far, but he would have to be the one to choose to have that contact he said he wanted. Gibbs knew that he couldn't force it and he knew that in order for Tim to be able to face the strain of testifying in a trial he would have be to be able to lean on others more than he was right now...which wasn't much at all, only as much as he had to. More was needed. Gibbs had seen it in Tim's near breakdown at the prison. He had seen it in every breakdown Tim had had since coming to his home. Tim was afraid of leaning on others. He was afraid of being hurt...but he also felt as though he shouldn't lean. They had to break through that...but it had to be Tim who did it. The nature of the attack meant that no one could take that step because any measure of force would be too much like what had already been done.

So Gibbs waited. He sat next to Tim on the steps for two full hours without speaking, without making a move. His rear end was numb, but he'd faced a lot worse discomfort.

Then, suddenly, without any warning, Tim began to cry and he leaned against Gibbs, all the tension in his hands, in his arms, in his body, leaking out as he sobbed. Gibbs put a light arm around Tim's shoulders, ready to withdraw it at the first sign of fear.

There was none. Tim just sobbed and sobbed.

There were only two sentences that Tim spoke for the rest of that night...but for all its simplicity, they expressed the one thing that gave Gibbs hope that Tim had taken a few steps in the right direction.

In the midst of the tears pouring down his cheeks, as he sat beside Gibbs and asked for (and received) comfort from the man next to him, Tim spoke.

"I was raped."

...and then...

"They raped me."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

As the days went on, Tim started taking a few steps back along the path to himself. Gibbs knew that he'd never answered Tim's question. He hadn't given Tim any answer. He did hope that Tim either hadn't noticed or that he'd found his own answer. ...but he had moments where he still feared that Tim hadn't forgotten, that he still wanted that answer.

...but nothing more was said about it for the time being. Tim continued to go to therapy every night. He continued to try and find some shred of normalcy in his life...and he seemed to succeed in some respects. There was less flinching around people. Fewer breakdowns. His parents came down from Ohio and spent time with him. Tim didn't talk about their visit much, but whatever had happened, it had been positive and after a week, they had returned to Ohio with the promise of coming for the trial.

The Attorney General had all the evidence, Tim's official statement, the documentation of Tim's injuries. Abby had shown the other case she'd found, and after another two weeks, the attorney's office had told them that at least five other cases with similar injuries and similar stories had been found...dating back seven years. Three victims had come forward, all men who had not reported the rapes when they had occurred. One had since divorced his wife and abandoned his job, becoming a recluse, almost homeless. Another had simply withdrawn and dedicated himself only to his work, ignoring all his friends. He had never told anyone because, as a homosexual, he had figured everyone would assume he had asked for it. The third had never shown the slightest problem until he had seen those images on the television. He had been watching the news with his wife and his thirteen-year-old son who was doing a project on journalism for school. The sight of the men who had raped him four years before had shocked him so deeply that he had completely broken down, frightening both his wife _and_ his son until he could confess what had happened to him.

Tim briefly hoped that would mean his testimony wouldn't be needed...but that hope was quickly dashed. He was the only one with the memory of it fresh in his mind. While two others _had_ reported the crimes, they were older cases, and in the case of one, there had been very little outward trauma. Neither of those who had reported the cases before had got a good look at their rapists and couldn't firmly say that it was Lane and Mitch. Tim had the physical injuries, the eyewitness account, the recent experience. ...and he was a federal agent, someone who would be considered more trustworthy just by virtue of what he did for a living. The others would be valuable, but it was Tim's testimony and Tim's experience that would carry the case.

A month after his rapists had been extradited to Washington DC, the prosecutor began coaching Tim in how his testimony would go when the trial began. The prosecutor, being male, intimidated Tim more than might be hoped, but during the coaching sessions, either Ziva or Abby was always with him...and their presence seemed to help.

As the time lengthened out with the trial not beginning, Tim began both to relax and fret. On the one hand, he wanted it to be over. On the other, he didn't even want it to start.

He stayed with Gibbs for two months and then decided that he needed to get back some of his independence. He returned to his own apartment and even got Jethro back with him. Ziva and Abby still took turns giving him rides to his therapy sessions. He had told them before that he didn't need that. He could drive himself, but they insisted.

It was four months since his rapists had been extradited. Five months since he had been raped. Tim was back at work, albeit in a limited capacity. Vance had decided to keep him at headquarters, working a lot with Abby, but also just doing desk work. It wasn't exciting, but there had been some publicity about the case and he didn't want to risk Tim getting hounded while at work. He was doing better, but...

...better didn't necessarily mean all was well.

It wasn't.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim had developed a bit of a phobia of going out in big groups where there were a lot of strangers. It was understandable but, after talking to Dr. Warren about it, they had tried to get him to agree to go out with them once a week, just to keep Tim from becoming a hermit. It worked...somewhat. The problem was that Tim never enjoyed himself when he went out with them. It was clear the entire time that he was counting down until he could leave again. He barely spoke. He was too busy trying not to be obvious about the fact that he was watching everyone around them. ...and when he was with them, he never left their sides. Ever. Not even to visit the men's room. No matter how much they tried to get him to talk to other people, he wouldn't.

It had been two weeks since they'd managed to convince Tim to come out with them. He reluctantly agreed after a concerted effort from Abby, Ziva, Tony and Jimmy. In reality, they themselves never had much fun when they did this. For one thing, someone was always watching what Tim drank, if anything, just to be sure that he didn't fall back into his previous binging ways, but they could only hope that it would help.

"Tim, that blonde is totally checking you out," Tony said in a low voice. "She's been watching you all night."

Tony watched as Tim's eyes involuntarily tracked in on the pretty blonde sitting down the bar from them. ...and then sighed as those same eyes looked away with little to no interest. Tony looked at the blonde who seemed disappointed. In fact, Tony was pretty sure she'd been there before watching Tim. She never approached, but she had made her interest obvious. Tony caught her eye and just shrugged.

"Come on, McGee," Tony said. "She's interested in you. You could talk to her, you know."

"No," Tim said without looking up. "Can I leave yet?"

Tony looked at Ziva. She nodded and moved closer. "Tim, would you dance with me?"

They had learned that, if they asked Tim if he _wanted_ to do something or if he'd _like_ to do something, the answer would be no. So they now only asked if he _would_ do it. Sometimes, he said yes. Sometimes, no. The song playing was slow. The bar was relatively empty.

"Tim?" she asked again when he didn't answer. "Would you dance with me?"

Tim looked at her and nodded with no enthusiasm. Ziva just smiled and took his hand, leading him to the dance floor. Once he was out there, he did all the right things, moved smoothly, held Ziva, not tightly, but gently. If you didn't actually look at his face, you'd think he was enjoying himself. ...but he wasn't.

"How long do we keep trying?" Jimmy asked in a low voice. "I'm wondering if this is really the best way to get him out again. Maybe something smaller first?"

"Jimmy, it's a little late to suggest that."

"I suggested it before!" he protested. "Remember?"

Tony did remember. They had all got together and talked about it a few months ago. Jimmy's voice had been the one raised in protest about their plan. Since Tim's troubles had begun in a bar, maybe getting him out in public again by taking him to places like that wasn't a good idea. He'd been overruled by the others, although Gibbs had seemed to agree with Jimmy. The problem was that Jimmy seemed to have been right. They'd avoided all the big, loud, and especially crowded venues, but even these smaller places weren't giving Tim any sense of enjoyment.

"Uh-oh. She's going in for the kill," Jimmy said, nodding toward the blonde.

Sure enough. The blonde from the bar had apparently decided to take matters into her own hands and was approaching Tim and Ziva.

"Woman on the prowl. Ow!"

Abby had slugged him hard on the arm.

"Should I help you open your mouth wide enough to pull your foot out of it?" she hissed.

"Come on," Jimmy said...never knowing when to stop. "I'll bet she's the kind of woman who wears animal-print underwear to make herself feel more...powerful or whatever."

"Jimmy!"

"It's true. Women do that!"

"Jimmy!" Abby slugged him again.

"Ow!"

"Shut up," Tony said. "Should we intercept?"

Abby sighed. "Ziva's there. She won't let things get out of hand."

"Never underestimate a woman determined to bring down her prey," Jimmy said, obviously enjoying stretching the metaphor to its limits, even with Abby's punches.

They watched as the woman slid expertly through the crowd on the dance floor to Tim and Ziva. She began dancing close enough to attract their attention but not quite close enough to cut in.

"She's pretty good," Abby said quietly. "Not wanting to seem too forward but making her presence known. She's not going away until she gets verbal rejection...and maybe not even then."

"McGee's not going for it," Tony said.

"Obviously."

It was, indeed, painfully obviously that Tim had seen her and was patently ignoring her. On the one hand, they were glad to have someone trying, but on the other, Tim's clear rejection was having no effect and they weren't sure how he would react to persistence.

The song ended and, instead of letting Tim and Ziva walk off the dance floor, the blonde intercepted and was obviously trying to get Tim to dance with her. ...and he was clearly saying no. She kept trying to get him to stay, laughing, joking. Ziva said something and the blonde simply tossed her head in dismissal.

Then, carrying over the chatter and the new song, came Tim's response.

"Look, I said _no_, all right?"

He turned his back on her and walked away. Her face darkened and whatever she said in reply didn't carry over to Tony, Jimmy and Abby...but Abby must have been paying close enough attention to read her lips because she instantly jumped off her stool and strode over to the blonde. Tim hadn't turned around, but his face was stricken by whatever she had said. Ziva looked furious, but she was more intent on getting Tim away. She gave one look at Tony and then moved Tim to the exit rather than back to the bar. It looked like the night was over.

Not one of their better outings.

"Told you. Woman on the prowl," Jimmy said, taking advantage of Abby's absence as he pulled some money out to pay their tab.

"I can think of a better description," Tony muttered.

"I'll bet Abby is already _saying_ something better," Jimmy said, almost gleefully.

Tony looked back over his shoulder and saw Abby gesticulating wildly at the woman who seemed taken aback by her vehemence. Then, Abby turned around, her expression stormy and returned to the bar.

"What did she say, Abbs?" Tony asked.

"Nothing that needs to be repeated, Tony," Abby said, threw some money on the bar and then stormed out.

Jimmy grabbed Tim's jacket while Tony got Ziva's.

"Next time, let's just go to dinner," Jimmy suggested.

"Good idea. If we can get him to come with us again."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tony was the designated driver for the night and took everyone home, although no one had had very much to drink this time. Jimmy was the first let off. Then, Abby. Tony planned on dropping Tim off first so that he wouldn't have to be alone in the car with another male...but it was not to be.

"Tony, just drop us off at my place," Ziva said. "Tim is staying with me tonight."

Tim said nothing either for or against the plan. So that meant he already knew about it or he didn't care. Both were viable options.

"Right you are," Tony said without comment. He got the feeling that any joke right now would only make the situation worse. He wasn't sure just how bad it was, but it wouldn't be helped by a joke.

He drove to Ziva's apartment and parked. Tim got out first. Ziva started to open the door.

"What happened, Ziva?"

Ziva shook her head. "It does not bear repeating, Tony. She...questioned his manhood. There are worse things people have said, but it was not what he needed to hear. I will try to speak with him tonight. I may not succeed. He has withdrawn again."

"You want any visitors tomorrow?"

Ziva considered and then shook her head. "No. I think this will not be so easily solved. Would you stop at Tim's apartment and check on Jethro?"

Tony nodded. "When is this going to be over, Ziva?"

"Perhaps never," she said and then got out of the car.

Tony watched them go inside and then headed for Tim's apartment. They all had keys...just in case.

Jethro wasn't exactly thrilled that it was Tony coming to see him rather than Tim, but he was eager enough to go outside and be fed. Tony made sure everything was okay. No signs of dangerous breakdowns that Tim had concealed from them. As he walked out of the bedroom, he noticed a sheet of paper in the typewriter. He hadn't realized Tim was writing again. That seemed like a good sign. Curious, he walked over and started reading.

It wasn't a story. There were dates typed out going back the entire month. A date and then one sentence. The same one every time.

_I see nothing in the mirror._

Tony sat down at Tim's desk and looked at the sheet of paper.

_I see nothing in the mirror._

He sighed. How long would it take to break Tim out of this?

Tony stayed there for a while.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

"I still have the bed made up from the last time," Ziva said.

"That was a month ago, Ziva," Tim said dully.

"I know. I decided it would be better to keep it made up in case of visitors. It means I do not have to find a place to put the extra sheets." She smiled.

"Thanks." Tim did not smile.

"We should talk, Tim."

"No. Nothing to talk about, Ziva. I'll just go to bed."

Ziva closed the spare room door and shook her head. "No. We need to talk. What happened at the bar..."

"Was nothing. It's not like I haven't heard worse before."

"Have you?"

Tim paused. "Okay, I haven't, but that's not a big deal."

"Really."

"Yes. Really."

"Then, what is wrong?"

Tim glanced at her briefly. "Wrong?"

"Yes. What is wrong? If you are truly not upset by what that woman said to you, then what _is_ bothering you?"

Tim just blinked at her for a few seconds.

"And do not say nothing because I can see that _something_ has upset you...even more than you are generally."

That pulled a small smile to Tim's lips.

Ziva gestured toward the couch. "Please. Sit down, Tim. It is not late and tomorrow is Sunday. There is no reason to go to bed early."

"What about because I want to?"

"So you can lay there and not sleep?" Ziva asked as she went into the kitchen and started heating up water for tea. "What is the good of that?"

"I'm alone."

"I could change that if you would like," she suggested with a falsely-leering grin.

Tim shook his head, the smile fading. He sat down on the couch and sighed. "That's what's wrong."

"You want to sleep with me?" Ziva asked, in surprise.

Tim laughed shortly. "No."

Ziva walked over and sat beside Tim.

"What is it, then, Tim?"

"I don't really... You're not the person I would have...have picked to talk to about this."

"You do not have to. Would you like to speak to someone else, then?" Ziva asked. "Abby or Tony or Gibbs? Even Ducky or Jimmy?"

"No."

"Dr. Warren?"

"She already knows."

"What, Tim?"

Tim looked very uncomfortable, even taking his now-normal attitude into account...and that was saying something. They sat quietly for a few minutes and then the tea kettle began to whistle. Ziva got up and poured it over some jasmine flowers, letting it steep until it was ready. Then, she brought the two cups over to the couch.

"Have some tea," she said.

"What kind is it?"

"Jasmine. Good for relieving stress...or so Ducky told me."

"Are you giving me a hint?"

"If I need to."

Tim didn't respond. Instead, he sipped at the tea without speaking. Ziva let him stay silent for a while. If he needed time to gather his thoughts, it wasn't her place to force him to speak. However, she was surprised when Tim took the initiative.

"That woman...at the bar...she was...attractive."

"Yes?"

"It's...It's not that I didn't notice that...but...I didn't...feel anything."

"You do not have to feel something for..."

Tim interrupted her. "No, you don't understand." He set down his cup. "I... The last time I..." He shook his head and stood up, facing the window rather than Ziva. One hand raised helplessly and and then fell back to his side. He was quiet for a few seconds and then let it out. "I haven't felt anything...sexually...since I was raped."

Ziva blinked in surprise and understood why she was probably not high on the list of people he'd like to tell about this.

"...but when they...when I was raped...when they raped me...I...it was..." Tim let out a loud exhalation and then spoke quickly, clearly repeating what he had been told before. "My body reacted like it was designed to react to certain stimuli and...and I... but it hasn't... That woman tonight...others that I...I would have felt some...some attraction or...or desire for before... I don't feel anything anymore. Nothing."

"I am...sorry, Tim. I did not understand."

"No...there was no reason you _should_ have understood. It's...It's not something you think about. It's not something you talk about." Tim still wouldn't turn around, and Ziva didn't try to force him to face her while talking about something extremely private and embarrassing. "Dr. Warren says that my being...affected by the rape is just because of the way the male body is designed, that it has nothing to do with what I want or don't want...but...but they could...and they did make...and...nothing has since. No one."

"McGee..." Ziva hesitated...and noticed that she'd unconsciously fallen back on the more impersonal last name. She wasn't sure if Tim noticed it as well. "Tim...did you often...before?"

"No. Not often...but I...I don't know how to explain what's different. It just _is. _I hate to say it, but guys notice women...that way...probably more than women notice guys...and I don't anymore. I don't feel _anything_ that way. Nothing. Not for anyone I've seen. I just...don't _feel_ it, and I hate that there's this...this void. ...and I can't pretend that it's not there. I can't pretend that I feel something I don't feel. ...and at the same time, I'm afraid of feeling anything at all. I know it's...it's stupid because... but I...I just...I can't..." He lost his words. "I just can't."

"You do not have to, Tim," Ziva said earnestly. "We are not taking you to these places with the idea that you will go...and...and have sex with someone!" She stood up and walked closer to him, noticing the increased tension in his stance as she approached. "It is because you cannot hide from the whole world...and if you stay hidden...we are afraid that we will never find you."

"I _want_ to be hidden," Tim said. "I don't want to go out to bars and talk to people. I just want to be alone."

"Even without us? Do you wish to isolate yourself even from your friends?"

"I don't want to be like I am. ...but I can't change."

"You can. You already have."

"No. Not in a good way. I...I...when I remember...I'm the same as I was that night. Why could they? Why could...can...the _memory_ of what they did...why can that make me...but nothing else?"

"I do not know, Tim. I cannot...tell you what you may want to hear. ...but I can listen. I can be here to listen. We are not trying to hurt you. We are trying to help, but there is only so much we can do when you refuse to let us know what _will _help."

"Why can't you just let me be alone?"

"Why do you think that will help?"

"Because it's easier."

"How?"

"I don't have to try...to think of a reason for this being worth it."

"You do not think it is?"

"No, I don't."

"Why not?" Ziva asked, appalled at the apathy in Tim's voice. She had known he had his ups and downs...but she had never thought that there were _only_ downs.

Tim still wasn't looking at her.

"Someone comes close to me and I'm afraid. I go out and see people and I'm afraid. That woman tonight should have made me feel something and I felt nothing. I have nothing to look forward to except testifying in a trial that will be as much about me as about them. My testimony will be questioned. My life will come under scrutiny so that they can find some way of casting doubt on the worst experience of my life. They'll need details. They'll want to trip me up. I'll have to see them sitting there knowing that, until they raped me, everyone thought they were normal..._good_ people." Tim shook his head, obviously in disbelief. "They have _wives_, Ziva! They have _children_! I'm the agent of tearing their families apart because I chose to tell what happened to me. Do you think they'll want me to be right? Or do you think they'll want me to be a liar? People have already started questioning. I've seen the comments people wrote on that story in the Washington Post."

Ziva winced. She had also seen some of those comments...things along the lines of "looks like someone just didn't like what he paid for" or "cops are always trying to pin it on the public" or "can I have ur number?". Whoever had thought of making it possible for people to post instant comments to online news articles should be dragged out into the street and shot.

"By agreeing to all this, by doing what is the _right_ thing to do, I'm...I'm just...prolonging my own agony. And for _what_? Is there going to be a moment in the future that I'm not miserable? Will going through all this somehow make me better?"

"Yes," Ziva said.

Tim was startled, almost as though he'd forgotten she was there. He looked at her in surprise.

"How?"

Ziva looked Tim in the eye. He met her gaze only for a few seconds before turning away. This time, Ziva didn't let him. She moved around so that she was facing him head on.

"Because...that is who you are, Tim."

"What do you mean?"

"Timothy McGee is a man who would do something painful if he knew it would help others. Timothy McGee is a man who uses his skills for the greater good. Timothy McGee wants justice, not just for himself but for all the others. You are doing what Timothy McGee does. Going through with it is something that you do and if you do it then you will become more of yourself."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have learned to look beyond myself...and part of learning that came from you. When you saw me upset about being stuck at a desk, you tried to make me feel better by sharing some of your own pain. When I was new here, you made me welcome even though you were still grieving as the others were. You are not perfect, but no one is and if you can try to set aside your own pain and help others...you will find your pain less."

"And what if I can't do that?"

"You already are," Ziva said. "Do you not see that?"

"No. I don't." Tim finally met her gaze. "Ziva, every day that brings me closer to having to testify terrifies me. I dread it every morning. I think about what would happen if I just ran away and refused to testify. I think about what would happen if I lied and said they didn't do anything to me. I think about how I could get out of it. I don't think about who I'm helping. I don't think about it being the right thing to do. I just don't...want...to do it."

Ziva put her on Tim's cheek and smiled.

"And yet you are doing it anyway."

Tim didn't respond and so Ziva reached out and took Tim by the hand. She led him back to the couch and sat down, pulling him down with her. Slowly, so as not to frighten him, Ziva scooted close to Tim and put her arms around him. She didn't say a word and she didn't push. She just hugged him, wanting to ease the tension she could feel in his body, wanting Tim to see more to life than the struggle.

After a few minutes, Tim sighed and leaned his head on hers. His arms moved around her, returning the hug. Still, there were no words and the tension didn't ebb. Ziva just waited. If Tim wanted to move away, she knew he would do so. If he wanted to talk, he could. All she could do herself was wait to see what he wanted.

"It's not fair, Ziva," he whispered.

"It is not," she agreed.

A few more minutes passed and Tim began to relax. Ziva didn't release him, nor did she tighten her grip. She just waited.

"Why did this happen to me?" Tim whispered.

"I do not know."

More time passed. Tim sighed again...and relaxed more.

Neither of them spoke again. They just sat in each other's arms...not sleeping, not talking...just being there. It was all Ziva could do and so she was willing to do it. If Tim felt safe, felt comfortable...felt even contented, she didn't know. She just hoped that he felt something positive rather than fear and anxiety.

Eventually, they both fell asleep where they were.


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

_Two months later..._

He closed his eyes as the wind blew and the rain pelted his face.

It was a rare moment. Tim was alone. Not even Jethro was with him. All alone. A rare smile graced his lips. Of course, no one realized that he was alone just yet. They hadn't realized that he was gone. They would eventually and they'd worry and they'd search for him...but that was all right. He was beginning to accept that they needed to help him. He was beginning to accept that, much of the time, he actually _needed_ the help they were giving him. It didn't mean that he always wanted them there, though.

He had eluded them all...and it had taken more planning than he had thought it would. Until last week, he really hadn't noticed how much time they all spent with him. Even when they weren't physically with him, they called him on the phone. They chatted with him on the computer. They took him to his therapy sessions. They picked him up. He was alone very rarely...and while he appreciated their efforts, it had gotten to the point that he didn't want the attention anymore...and was in a state that he could take matters into his own hands.

And so he had. Quietly, without telling anyone of his intentions, Tim had looked for a place to go that would allow him to be alone. He needed the time. The prosecutor had called to tell him that the trial date had finally been set for January of the new year. That gave him a little over a month to be prepared for his part. In between now and then, there was Christmas. Tim was going to go home for a while to visit his parents. To get away from Washington, DC and all the memories it held.

Not much had changed from his time with Ziva. When they had awakened the next morning, Ziva had shown her usual perspicacity and didn't say anything about their conversation the previous night. Still, there had been some awkwardness. Talking about a loss of one's sex drive wasn't a normal topic. Life had gone on, however, as it was wont to do. The one thing Tim _had_ been very grateful for was the fact that they had finally stopped taking him to bars. More often than not, their attempts to keep Tim in contact with the outside world were simply meals at someone's house. He appreciated it, but their need to keep tabs on him at all times was just a bit wearing at this point.

Which brought him here, to Great Falls Park, in the middle of December when even this part of the United States started getting colder. He was dressed for the cold...although not for the rain and wind. He hadn't bothered to check the weather before he had fled the concerned arms of his friends. He had awakened early in the morning and driven away, giving in, for the moment, to his omnipresent desire to get away, to run. He hadn't run very far. Great Falls Park was only about fifteen miles from DC...but they wouldn't think to look for him here because he'd never mentioned this place before, because he hadn't ever been here. It just wasn't a place that was high on his list of locales to visit.

Another strong gust of wind hit him, carrying with it a pelting of rain. Tim smiled. He would be soaked to the bone by the time he got back to his car. Actually, he should already be there. The park only stayed open until dark. At this time of year, it was nearly dark by five. It was almost that now. ...but Tim didn't start walking back to his car. He stayed where he was. The rock he'd chosen to sit on beside the river was comfortable enough. ...and what discomfort he did feel was minor in comparison to the agony he'd experienced only a few months before.

The falls weren't even visible from where he was sitting...but that didn't matter. He'd spent all day here and he'd seen the falls plenty. Three hours ago he had decided to start walking on the River Trail. There weren't too many people around, not in the middle of the week in December. And now, at five p.m., there was no one on the trail. Just one idiot who hadn't come with a flashlight and now would have to make his solitary way back to his car in the dark.

Maybe he should have been afraid, but Tim just laughed at himself and stared out at the dark, rushing water below him. It was as though his physical safety had no meaning, no value. What was the point in worrying about one's life when one's soul was still in tattered pieces? It wasn't important whether or not he could get back to his car without turning an ankle or some other such foolishness. In fact, he felt no interest in returning to his car. He wanted to sit here on this rock, listen to the wind and rain, shiver in the cold and relish the feeling of nothing mattering but the elements around him.

Full dark came on and yet Tim still had no desire to move. He just sat in the wind and rain, letting time pass in his perfect solitude. No need to talk. No need to discuss. No need for anything but moving just enough to keep himself from freezing. Part of him did want to be back in the warmth of his apartment (or even the warmth of his car), but not enough to get him to leave.

Tim sat there, not thinking about anything much. Just sitting. Time passed for him without acknowledgment. Most of the trees had lost their leaves. He could see them as dark smears against the cloudy sky, waving back and forth in the gale. It was hard to tell whether he could hear the river or if he could only hear the wind whipping through the trees.

Unbidden, the conversation he'd had yesterday came into his mind. It had been nice of the prosecutor to give him so much warning...

"_January."_

"_What?"_

"_Trial date's been set. Finally. January 18__th__."_

"_When...when will I have to..."_

"_Depends on how long opening arguments take. It will probably be a few days after that. In the new year, we'll go over just what I'm going to ask you."_

"_What about the defense?"_

"_I know you're worried about that, but just remember what I told you before: his job is to defend his clients, but that doesn't mean that you have to deal with everything up on the stand without help. Take your time to answer. That will give me a chance to object if I decide I need to. If you need a break, you can ask for one. That's your right."_

"_They'll...make it look like..."_

"_Yes, they'll try but since it's not your fault, that doesn't matter. You can admit that it was a mistake to go with them into the room, but that, in no way, means that it's your fault they raped you. They'll try a lot of things. As long as you speak clearly, as long as you are honest, it doesn't matter. Remember: you're not trying to convince the defense. It doesn't matter what the defense thinks or what the defense says. What matters is that the jury gets convinced, and even then, it's up to me to sway them. The evidence is clear."_

"_That doesn't always matter, though, does it."_

"_No. It doesn't. I'm not going to lie to you, Agent McGee. We have to fight against more than just the trial itself. We have to confront public opinion. People have a twisted view of rape. They think it's horrible and a crime that should be punished severely, but at the same time, they try to find a reason why it happened to the victim...and in doing so, they start to blame the victim...especially a male victim."_

Tim sighed...the enjoyment of his surroundings fading. The frequency of flashbacks had faded considerably in the last month, but after talking with the prosecutor, he had experienced a resurgence of nightmares. One of the reasons he'd awakened so early this morning was because of a particularly vivid nightmare that had him out of bed and into the shower almost before he had realized what he was doing. He had quickly regained control of himself, but it hadn't been pleasant.

A shudder ran through his body, one that wasn't due to the cold. Tim hunched his shoulders as he remembered anew the feeling of being trapped in that room...on that bed...those two men holding him down.

The second time had been the worst. He hadn't been able to believe it was happening. The beating had been bad, but it was nothing to what had followed. The first assault, when he had realized just what they were doing to him...that was bad...but even then, it was the second time when he had realized that there was no limit to what these men were doing to him...that was worse. It wasn't just once and then it was inconceivable but over. No, it kept going...and going...and going. Yes, the second time was the worst. ...but only slightly less horrific had been when he had thought they were done...when he had been so bruised, so weakened, so...horrified by what had happened that they had left him lying on the bed with no restraint at all. He still had no idea how long it had gone on. In his mind it never ended...until the moment when it was supposed to be over. ...and then it wasn't. They themselves had been unable to continue...but that hadn't stopped them. Had the bottle felt worse? Did it even matter? No, it didn't matter. What mattered was that his mind had reeled anew at the realization that they could keep this up forever. Why would they ever stop? They didn't have to stop. Ever. They could keep at it until he died.

Tim didn't bother to wipe away the tears. Even if there was someone with him right now, he knew they wouldn't be able to discern tears versus raindrops. ...and since no one was there, it didn't matter anyway.

Eventually, he had passed out from the pain, from the shock, from the sheer magnitude of the atrocity. ...and the last thing he had heard was them laughing at him. Then, had come the blessed oblivion.

...which hadn't lasted. He wished for the oblivion to return, for that nothingness that allowed for complete isolation. Since his awakening in that hotel room, he had been stuck in a neverending nightmare. Yes, the intensity had lessened somewhat, but he still hadn't been able to escape it. Sometimes, he wondered why he was still trying. Hadn't he done his best? Wasn't that enough?

"What am I waiting for?" Tim asked the world at large. "A miracle?"

There was no miracle. No sudden healing. No going back. There was only this for the rest of his life. In his head his life lasted until the trial was over. He was sticking around because he was needed to stop this destruction from happening to someone else. ...but after that...what was the point? Nothing in his life gave him any joy. Everything was sullied by what had happened to him. It was all well and good for Gibbs to say that he needed to look beyond the rape...but it wasn't so easy to do that. In fact, it was impossible.

The rain lessened slightly, but the wind was blowing as hard as ever. Tim struggled to push aside all his thoughts and just listen to the wind. There was nothing in the world but this rock...the rain...the wind. That was it. An empty world around a lone human being. Nothing else.

For a long time, that's truly all there was. As far as Tim was concerned, he was the only human being left in the world...and that was all right with him.

...but it couldn't last.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

"_Timothy?"_

Tim jumped and looked around, not that it helped. He couldn't see anything much at all in the wind and rain...and darkness.

"_Timothy!"_

Tim recognized the voice but he didn't answer. He turned fully toward the river. His solitude was coming to an end...and he didn't want it to end. He wanted it to continue. He wanted to live in this world of white noise.

"_McGee!"_

Tim sighed and looked over his shoulder. Through the trees, he could see a flashlight. Two flashlights. They were more prepared than he was. He looked back at the river.

"_Timothy!"_

"_McGee!"_

A swath of light moved over him...passed him...and then moved back. He'd been found.

"_Timothy! Jethro, I found him."_

Faintly, beneath the sound of the storm, Tim could hear someone moving through the trees.

"Timothy?"

Tim didn't respond. One part of him hoped that if he didn't move, didn't speak, they'd think he wasn't there.

"It's him. Why don't you go and tell the others that we've found him? I'll stay here."

Whatever came after that pronouncement must have either been whispered or else non-verbal. Tim didn't hear any response only the faint sound of receding footsteps.

"May I sit, Timothy?"

Tim chose not to say anything. It wasn't his rock. He didn't own it. Anyone could sit there.

"Timothy."

He wasn't going away. He wasn't sitting down. ...and there was very little chance that he'd forget Tim was sitting there.

Tim sighed.

"It's a free country," he whispered.

"Pardon?"

"It's a free country. Sit wherever you want."

"Thank you."

Tim felt a warm presence beside him and tensed involuntarily before he sternly told himself to stop being stupid. It was only Ducky. He didn't move, though.

"What are you doing here, Timothy?"

"Sitting."

"How long have you been here?"

"At the park? All day. Got here when they first opened up this morning."

"And on this rock?"

"Don't know. What time is it?"

"Nearly eleven."

"Oh." Longer than he'd thought. Some time had passed without his noticing it.

"How long?"

"A few hours. Since three or so."

"You've been on this rock for eight hours?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Why?" Ducky sounded reproachful.

Tim found that he couldn't care less.

"Why not?"

"It's been raining all day."

"Doesn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because a little rain doesn't hurt. ...a lot of rain doesn't hurt. It's just rain."

"It _can_ hurt...in large enough quantities or for a long enough period of time."

"This doesn't hurt."

"Timothy, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to be alone. ...and I was succeeding."

"You must be soaked."

"Hasn't got through my coat yet. It's a good coat." It was, too. Tim had bought it with the idea of being impervious to the elements when he wore it. His hat? Not so much. His head was very wet...but the rest of him was dry...or rather, from his shoulders to his hips was dry. Below that, he was soaked.

"Aren't you cold?"

"A bit. Not bad."

A hot hand touched his face. Tim jerked away from it and then realized that it must be Ducky's hand.

"You are much too cold, Timothy."

"It's not that bad. I don't mind it."

"It _is_ that bad. How long were you planning on staying?"

"Don't know. I'd head back eventually."

There was a brief silence.

"You lied to us, Timothy."

"Yes. I did."

He had told everyone that Vance had asked him to help out in Cybercrimes today. It was easy because everyone knew they had been short-handed. He had told Vance that he'd be helping out in Cybercrimes until they got caught up. ...and then he had simply not gone to work.

"How long did it take you to realize it?"

"Until after lunch. Abigail went down to see if you wanted to join her and they told her that you hadn't been down at all. Then, when we could, we went to your apartment. Finding you gone, we called Dr. Warren."

"She didn't know either."

"No...although she didn't sound surprised."

Again, a measure of reproach. Tim still didn't care.

"How did you find me?"

"You brought your cell phone."

Tim smiled a little. Yes, that tracked. He should have thought of that.

"Timothy, what are you thinking of?"

"I'm thinking that it was a lot quieter before you got here."

"What are you trying to do?"

"Be alone...with no one near me. Alone except for the world around me. No one else is around and I don't have to think about anything. That's what I'm trying to do."

"Were you succeeding?"

"Off and on."

"Do you really think it helps?"

Tim felt a surge of hot anger. "Ducky, when _you_ have been gang raped, pulled apart from the inside, destroyed and left behind to _rot_, _then _you can criticize my choices. Until then, just shut up."

Ducky didn't respond to Tim's anger. He did, however, respond to his words.

"Is that how you feel about yourself, Timothy? You feel that you have been destroyed? Pulled apart?"

Tears pricked Tim's eyelids. He refused to look away from the river. He didn't want to talk about this. This was the very thing he was trying to avoid.

"Can you truly not see how much progress you've made?"

Tim steadfastly said nothing...but he couldn't stop the tears from falling down his cheeks. ...but it was still raining.

"Why don't you come on back?"

"No! I'm not ready to leave yet! Leave me alone!" Tim said, with more anger than he had expected.

"Very well. I will wait."

"Don't bother. There's no point."

"Why not? We are all concerned for you and won't rest easy until we know that you're safe and well."

"Never gonna happen, Ducky. So you can cut your losses."

"What isn't?"

"I'm never going to be _well_. Ever."

A brief pause.

"What was your intention in coming out here?"

"I told you. I wanted to be alone."

"Were you planning on coming back?"

"Yes. The trial is in January."

"Is it?" Mild surprise.

"Prosecutor told me yesterday."

"And after the trial?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing, meaning what? You don't have any plans? Or your plans for the future include it being as brief as possible?"

"None of your business."

"On the contrary. It _is_ my business because you are a friend and I care about your well-being. If you intend to do something to endanger yourself, then I am very much involved."

"You don't have to be."

"Perhaps not, but I choose to be...as do all the others."

"Maybe I don't want you to be involved."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because there's nothing you can do except..." Tim stopped. He _really_ didn't want to talk about this.

"Except what?"

"Leave me alone, Ducky! Just leave me alone! Let me _be_ alone!"

"No."

Tim felt his jaw trembling. It was probably partly from the rain, but that wasn't the only thing that was causing it.

"What is that you think we can do?"

_No. No, I won't answer,_ Tim said furiously to himself.

"What, Timothy?"

"All you can do is...is...show how...show what I...I...don't have anymore."

"And what is that?" Ducky asked, his voice gentle and cajoling.

"Y-Y-You feel things...g-good things. You...You..." The hurt and rage that he'd tried so hard to suppress were welling up, seeking an egress. The oblivion, the emptiness and isolation he'd sought was swiftly vanishing...replaced by anger and fury...and fear. All too strong for him to bear.

"What is it, Timothy? Tell me."

The scream tore from his throat before he knew he was going to say it, before he'd even managed to find the words he uttered.

"_You have a LIFE!_"

Tim was breathing too heavily and all the pieces of himself, shattered by the assault on his soul, were crying out in agony.

"You have a life. You have...have hope! You have everything that I don't have!" He wasn't screaming anymore...but that was because he was crying so hard that he couldn't get the breath to scream. Instead, it came out squeaky and breathlessly. "It's not fair! It's not fair! And I HATE it! I hate it! I hate it...hate...hate..."

He felt the hand on his arm. Even in the midst of the breakdown, he felt himself tense and it only enraged him further.

"I hate everything about myself right now! I hate how I feel when I feel anything at all! I hate what happened to me! I hate what I do! I hate...hate what happens every time I remember! I hate..."

The one hand became two and those two hands tried to turn him away from the river. He didn't want to be forced to see anyone. He resisted...vehemently.

"Timothy! Timothy, listen to me!"

"I hate them! I want them to _die_! I want to kill them myself! I want..."

"Timothy!"

Tim was nearly hyperventilating through his tears.

"No, Timothy, please. You must calm down and listen."

Tim tried to struggle against Ducky's restraining arms, but not very hard. Only a part of him wanted to get away. The other part wanted to be told that everything was all right...or that it would be...even if it wouldn't.

"Please, Timothy. All is not lost. There _is _hope...if you would but open your eyes to see it."

Why bother saying what wasn't true? Tim didn't know even as he craved to hear whatever empty platitudes Ducky had in hand. He wanted them to be true, even if they weren't.

"You must not think this way. I know that's easier said than done, but there is so much that you have achieved in the last few months. Just look now. I am sitting here right beside you and you aren't afraid of me. You are angry. You are hurt. You are afraid of what is coming...but you are not afraid of me, are you."

Tim took deep trembling breaths and didn't answer.

"You have decided to fight against society's perception of what can happen to people and you are doing so while making sure that no one else suffers as you have had to suffer! You have a difficult fight ahead of you, yes, but you have won so many battles. Don't give up now!"

"I...I...I haven't...haven't w-w-won _anything_. I...I don't...f-f-feel like myself. I don't...feel like a human being at all," Tim said, still breathing irregularly. "All I feel is the...the bits and pieces that are left...of me. Can't get put back together again...can't...and I don't want to try anymore." Tim dropped his head and stared at the rock upon which he and Ducky were sitting. "I don't want to...to try...and lose again."

"You haven't lost."

"Yes, I have. Everyone's trying. Everyone wants me to get better, but I can't. I can't. I wish I could, but I can't. All I can...and...and I wait for something...some sign that I can go back to what I was like before...and I don't see it." More tears. "I don't see it anywhere. There's nothing I see when I look at myself in the mirror. There's...just a shade. ...and I don't want to...to try anymore. I don't want to try. I don't want to try. It's too hard to try."

Before Tim knew it, he was being rocked back and forth by Ducky...as if he was a child. ...and to his surprise, he felt no compulsion to pull away. Ducky didn't bother speaking again. Instead, he just rocked back and forth until Tim felt as though he could breathe again.

"Are you ready to hear me now?"

Tim just took a shuddering breath and didn't answer.

"If it's too hard to fight, then don't. That doesn't mean that you give up, however. In battle, men don't fight without stopping. They fight when they must, but if there is a chance to take a knee, a chance to breathe, they do so because that's the only way they can survive. You are trying too hard to be..._normal_, and you can't force something like that. You see only the failures. We see so many successes. You are afraid and that is understandable. That is fine. ...but don't let your fears make you think that you have no chance."

Tim didn't say anything. He let Ducky's soft comforting voice wash over him as he tried to calm down.

"You have a battle to fight coming up. The trial is going to be difficult for you. I know that. So...don't try right now. Just take one day at a time and don't berate yourself for not making it as far as you think you should. Soon it will be Christmas. You will be with your family. It will be awkward, more than likely...but it can also be a way of recharging your batteries. It can be the breath you take before plunging back into the fight once more. Being with those you love, those who love you, it is a beautiful and wonderful opportunity, no matter what the circumstances."

"But I..."

"But you don't feel normal. You don't even feel human. That is understandable and we all know that, including your family. They won't press you for more than you can give. In fact, more than likely, they'll want to give more than you can receive."

"I...don't want to do this, Ducky."

"I know, lad. I know."

"It feels like they won already. Why keep fighting?"

"Because it's the right thing to do...and they haven't won. They're in prison, declared a flight risk and a risk to you or to any other victims who have come forward in the wake of your courageous declaration."

Tim pulled away from Ducky and looked at the river again. He felt a lot warmer than he had before...and he shivered at the exposure to the elements.

"When I woke up...I wanted it to be a nightmare. ...but it wasn't. My whole life is a nightmare now...and I can't wake up from it."

"It isn't a nightmare. It's life and you don't wake up from that."

"I'm not courageous. I would never have told anyone if I hadn't...hadn't collapsed. If I hadn't passed out. No one would ever know. They would have gotten away and done it again. I wasn't being courageous. I had no choice...just like with what they did to me. I had no choice...and I hate it."

"I would as well."

"I don't want to go back."

"And yet, you must."

"Why?"

"Because the park is closed. It closed at dark."

Tim began to laugh and then the tears took over once more and he cried. Ducky put his arm around Tim's shoulders.

"Come, lad. The world isn't going away. There are people in it, many of them concerned for you. If you do not feel you can be well at this point, then at least come back and get warm...and dry."

The arm became a force, urging him to move, urging him to stand. Tim acquiesced to the silent request and stood. ...only to stumble when he tried to take a step.

"My legs are cramped," he said, tripping forward with Ducky's hands holding him up.

"If you've been sitting on that hard stone for eight hours, they should be," Ducky said lightly. "If you would hold the flashlight, I will guide you back to the path."

Tim took the flashlight, fumbled a bit as his cold fingers tried to flick the switch. Then, the meager beam of light shone ahead of them, guiding them both back to the trail. Tim's feet and legs were numb and did not want to work as legs and feet were supposed to. It took them a while to get back to the parking lot, but when they did, the others were all there waiting anxiously. Tim dropped his head at the sight of them and didn't speak, the flashlight now pointing directly at the ground rather than ahead of them. Ducky didn't say anything that Tim could hear, but he felt Ducky's hands tighten encouragingly on his arms, continuing to guide him forward.

Abby was the first to approach.

"Oh, Tim. We were so worried about you!" She hugged him and then let him go. "You're soaking!"

Tim nodded.

"Jethro, if you would take Timothy and myself home? I think it best if he stays with me tonight."

Tim smiled briefly. It seemed like whenever he had some sort of problem, he ended up staying at someone's home...as if they didn't trust him by himself.

_Which they shouldn't, probably..._

"Get on in the car, Timothy, and warm up."

Tim nodded and got into the car, the flashlight now hanging limply by his side. He watched as Ducky began speaking to the rest of the group who kept throwing glances his way. ...and he decided he couldn't care about that right now. Instead, he lay down on the backseat and closed his eyes.

No matter what Ducky said, Tim still just wanted it all to go away.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Ducky looked back at Tim and watched as he stared at them and then hopelessly lay down on the seat.

"What's going on, Ducky?" Tony asked. "What was he doing out here?"

"He wanted to be alone. He told me that the trial date has been set for January."

"Is he okay?" Abby asked.

"No," Ducky said simply. "He's not. He is as low as I've seen him in a while. He sees no point to his life after the trial is over...and that is a dangerous outlook for him to have, as you know."

"How long was he out there?"

"On that rock, at least eight hours."

"What?" Ziva asked, appalled. "Is he all right from that?"

"I will check on that when we get to my home. He was dressed for the cold, even if he was not dressed precisely for the rain."

"Should we come over, too?" Tony asked.

"Not tonight, I think. That would have too many overtones of an intervention."

"Maybe he needs one, Ducky," Tony said.

"Perhaps, but not tonight. Tonight, he needs something else."

"What?"

"I'm not certain, but he does not need a crowd tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough to see him."

"Will he be coming to work?" Ziva asked.

"That I couldn't say...nor could I say whether it would be better or worse for him to do one or the other at this point. We will simply have to play by ear. Now, it is late, and we have all been worried. Timothy is found once more." Ducky looked at them all with their anxious and worried expressions and he smiled. "It is this doctor's opinion that you all would do well to get a good night's rest."

They smiled and began to head back to their cars.

"Tony!" Gibbs called.

"What?"

Gibbs opened the car door and spoke softly to Tim. Then, he closed the door again and turned around.

"Drive McGee's car back." He tossed the keys and Tony caught them handily.

"Sure thing, Boss."

Since Abby, Tony and Ziva had come together and Jimmy, Ducky and Gibbs had come together, that meant some reshuffling and the way it fell out was that Tony and Abby went in Tim's car and Ziva and Jimmy went in Ziva's car.

"Duck..." Gibbs said before they opened the car doors.

"We need to speak with him, Jethro. ...immediately after I examine him. I don't know what will help, however."

"What did he say to you out there?"

"That he has absolutely no hope of ever finding happiness or even contentment. He feels there is no possibility of healing and that the only reason for him to keep living now is to make sure that his rapists go to prison. After that happens, if it does, he sees no point in trying any longer...and if we cannot change his mind, we'll lose him. It can't all happen tonight, but a beginning has to be made."

"How many beginnings will it take, Ducky? How many times can we help him start before it just doesn't work anymore?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. He had seemed to be doing better. I don't know if we can chalk this new stumbling entirely up to his fears for the coming trial...but I'm certain that's part of it."

"And his family?"

"They'll need to be told about this, of course. It wouldn't be right to leave them in the dark about Timothy's emotional trough."

"And?"

"And what, Jethro?" Ducky asked. "What is it that you want me to say? That all will be well? I hope it will...but I cannot say it will for certain. I cannot say whether or not Timothy will end up triumphant. I can only hope...and right now, that is more than Timothy can do."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim allowed Ducky and Gibbs to direct him indoors when they arrived at Ducky's place. There was no point in resisting and so he dealt with it as he often had dealt with things...by means of silent acquiescence.

He maintained his silence as Ducky took him into the spare room and instructed him to allow a medical examination, just to be sure that his time out in the elements hadn't been damaging. Tim did so. Gibbs didn't come into the room, but he hadn't simply dropped Tim and Ducky off. He was there. Somewhere. A part of Tim wondered why. The rest of him had retreated back behind the emptiness. He hadn't liked it before, but the quiet despair seemed to allow for nothing else. ...and what did it matter what he liked or didn't like, really?

"Place this under your tongue, please, Timothy."

Tim shoved in the thermometer and sat quietly while Ducky checked his pulse, blood pressure, respiration.

"All right," Ducky said, after the appropriate time. He removed the thermometer and checked it. "A bit low at 97 degrees, but not hypothermic. Thank goodness. Are you still cold?"

Tim nodded.

"All right. Why don't you go and take a hot shower. I believe there are some sweats from the last time you stayed with me. You could put them on. I'll find a blanket as well."

"Okay."

Ducky smiled sympathetically at him.

"Just come downstairs when you're finished."

"To talk?"

"Yes."

Tim only nodded. He should have known that what he'd said to Ducky before wouldn't be enough. Much more had to come. Still, he went into the shower and and turned up the temperature as hot as he could stand it. His feet actually tingled as they began the painful process of warming up. No, it wasn't frostbite, but his feet were colder than he'd thought they were. He let the water cascade over his body as he slowly returned to a normal temperature. The time he spent under the water stretched out longer and longer. Finally, he began to think about getting out. ...but then, he looked at his wrists. The wounds that had been there were healed now...healed but scarred. Two rough mottled bands around his wrists. There were fainter scars elsewhere on his body, places where his desire to rub away the attack had resulted in actual wounds.

Resting his head against the wall of the shower, breathing in the hot steam, Tim stared at his wrists...that evidence of what had been done to him that would never go away. Even if every other part of him healed, even if he managed to hide the horror that sometimes welled up in his eyes, these scars would always be there. Evidence of the worst humanity had inside it.

A knock on the door brought Tim back to the present.

"Timothy?"

Tim turned off the water and got out of the shower, shivering a bit in the cooler air of the bathroom. Quickly, he wrapped a towel around his waist and walked to the door. He opened it.

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't asking you to get out. I just wanted to be sure that you were all right."

Tim laughed a little. "No, I'm not, but I wasn't drowning either." He managed a smile, although it took a lot more effort than it usually did.

Ducky put a warm hand on Tim's bare shoulder. "I don't know that that is the case, but I'll not push the issue."

"For now?"

"For now," Ducky agreed without apology.

"I just need to get dressed."

"Did you eat at all today?"

"Breakfast."

"Nothing else?"

"No."

"Then, I'll make you something. Soup, probably."

"Not necessary."

"I disagree, and it's no trouble."

"Okay."

Ducky smiled and let him go.

"Oh, Timothy."

That was all. Then, Ducky headed back downstairs. Tim watched him go and closed the bathroom door. He thought about delaying the coming conversation, but what was the point? What time was it? Suddenly, he realized he had no idea. He walked out of the bathroom after he was dressed and looked around for a clock. After midnight. Dinner at midnight? Sure, why not. What did it matter?

Slowly, he thumped down the stairs and walked to the kitchen. Ducky, pointed to the table.

"It's nothing special, but it's warm and will at least put something in your stomach...which I'm sure you need."

Tim smiled wanly and sat down. He waited for the questions to start...and nothing happened. Ducky left the kitchen and allowed him to eat alone. Tim was grateful for that. He didn't want to talk at all, but to talk about this while trying to eat? He had a hard enough time cultivating an appetite. He didn't need to make himself sick.

He ate quickly and carried the bowl to the sink. Then, he closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath before walking into the living room. Ducky and Gibbs were talking softly to each other. They stopped and looked at him as he came in.

"You've eaten?" Ducky asked.

"Yeah. I put the bowl in the sink. That okay?"

"That's fine. Sit down."

Tim did so.

"We need to talk, Timothy."

"We could wait. It's late. You're probably tired."

"You're not?" Gibbs asked.

"Not really." He wasn't. Like his appetite for food, his need for sleep had seemed to wane considerably in the last few months. Nothing seemed to matter at all, be it physically or otherwise.

"You know what we need to speak about?"

"I can guess."

"And what do you have to say about it?"

"Nothing. Doesn't really matter. You think I have something to look forward to. I don't. What more is there to say?"

Gibbs and Ducky said nothing. Tim stared at them...feeling unaccountably disappointed. What was the point of them saying he needed to talk when they had nothing to say against what he believed? He had expected that... but no. He nodded and started to stand.

"You don't think that," Gibbs said before Tim could take a single step. "But you _want_ to."

"What?" Tim asked, sinking back to the chair.

"You want to feel like there's nothing to look forward to. That means you can't fail."

"Fail at what?"

"Living."

"It's not that easy, Boss," Tim said, feeling a bit rankled. "Just because _you_ can throw things off easily, doesn't mean that I can. I'm not like you."

"No one is asking you to throw it off easily."

"Yes, you are!" Tim said, standing up again. "Yes, you are! You want me to be normal again. I want that, too...but the difference is that I can't see how it's possible!"

"Why not?" Gibbs asked.

"Why not? Have you been UA for the last few months?"

"No. I've seen you and I've seen what you've done and what you've tried to do. Why don't you think it's possible?"

Tim looked at him and found that he had no words to describe how he felt inside. He couldn't tell Gibbs why getting back to normal was impossible because...he just didn't have the ability to express his pain in words, that feeling of utter vulnerability, the destruction of his entire being. He sank onto the chair and dropped his head into his hands.

"I'm hurt," he whispered.

"What?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm hurt."

"Where?" Ducky asked.

"Inside. It feels...like I'm bleeding to death...only it's my soul that's bleeding. It feels like...like I've been stabbed with hundreds of red-hot pokers. It feels like...like I'm dying and nothing I've done has stopped that. It's only stopped me from making my body hurt as much as my soul does...and what does that matter? What does _any_ of it matter? I was raped! Over and over again! Does it matter whether or not I'm happy? I'm not happy! I don't know how to be happy when I still feel ruined and destroyed! When people question what happened to me just because I happen to be a man instead of a woman! That guy in New York had the right idea. Why keep fighting a losing battle? Why? Please, tell me why! I need to know! ...because it seems like no one else knows why either. I should just keep fighting because...and that's not good enough! I need to know..."

"What, Timothy? What is it that you need to know?"

"I need...to know that...that you're right. I want to be wrong, Ducky. I want to be wrong, but I can't see that you're right. I can't see that taking a break is going to make it any better. I can't see that a holiday is going to help me...stop bleeding inside. I can't see any of that. I need to know that there's some...some point...some...purpose...because I can't see that."

To his surprise, Ducky smiled. "That is...encouraging, Timothy."

"Why?" Tim asked, his eyes filling with tears at what seemed an incredibly callous statement to make.

"Because you want something. Whether you realize it or not, you do have hope, even if it's just a hope in what we want for you."

"Either way. It doesn't matter," Tim said. "Not gonna happen."

The silence seemed to last for a long time and Tim felt compelled to fill it.

"And it's so stupid."

"What is?"

"It shouldn't have happened. It didn't _have_ to happen!"

"No, that's true."

Tim shook his head, irritated that they still didn't get it. "No! It didn't have to happen! Why was _I _so stupid?"

"What do you mean, then, Timothy?" Ducky asked.

"Why did I go with them? It was stupid! I didn't have to!"

"McGee..."

But now, Tim wasn't going to allow them to let him off the hook. No way. Not now.

"Tony tripped me and I spilled my drink on them. That's no reason to go with two perfect strangers! And even if I did that...why did I go all the way to the hotel? And why did I go to the room? Why did I go _into_ the room? I'm a federal agent! I know what people are capable of! I know what can happen to people! Why did I think that I was somehow immune from the worst that happens? Why was I such an idiot? Serves me right."

"No." Both Ducky and Gibbs said it in unison.

"Yes," Tim said and began to pace back and forth. "Yes. I'm supposed to be more observant. I'm supposed to be _trained_ to know what people have done! That's my _job_! And I didn't even _think_ that there would a problem! I was helping a guy get his friend back to his hotel room, saving him possible future embarrassment! That's what I was supposed to be doing! And it was _never_ that! Not at any moment from the first second that I fell over him! And I didn't have a _clue_! I never knew! Not until..." Tim closed his eyes, remembering that first moment. He had been so surprised, so shocked...but even then, he had no idea how bad it was truly going to be.

"No, Timothy," Ducky said again.

...but Tim wasn't finished.

"And that's what they're going to do. That's what the defense will say. Why didn't I realize? Why did I go with them if I didn't know who they were? Why would I have gone there if what I wanted hadn't been..." Tim couldn't finish, couldn't even fathom that kind of desire. "And I'm going to have to sit there and let them point out how stupid I was and use that as a justification for what they did...and I _was_ stupid! If I had just apologized and paid for the drink I spilled. If I had just..."

"McGee!" Gibbs said, standing and walking over to him.

"Men can't be raped, Boss!" Tim said, almost shouting. "You know that's what they'll be thinking! The prosecutor said as much! It's not possible for a man to be raped by another man. He secretly was wanting it. He wasn't trying to stop it. He was sexually aroused so that means it's not something that hurt him! How can I get them to see what happened? What's the point of even trying? Why should I think that..."

"McGee!" Gibbs said and shook Tim a little. "Stop it!"

"Why? I'm just saying what other people are saying!" Tim retorted angrily.

"What other people?" Gibbs asked. "Who is saying that?"

Tim wrenched his arms away from Gibbs, stalked over to where his soaking coat was hanging on a hook and pulled a wet piece of paper from one of the pockets. He walked back to Gibbs and thrust it at him. Gibbs looked at him in surprise and unfolded the paper. Tim watched as he read it, first with some degree of confusion and then with anger. Tim himself couldn't describe how reading it made him feel. Worthless, maybe...but that was still too positive.

"How long have you had this, McGee?"

"A few days."

"Have you told anyone?"

"No."

Ducky held out his hand and read it silently. Tim didn't need to hear the words. He had them memorized.

_How dare you cheapen the suffering of rape victims by claiming for yourself the kind of trauma that happens to women when men force themselves on them. Real rape victims have a hard enough time getting sympathy from society without a man trying to claim that he was raped. You deserve any public humiliation you receive from this trial. I sincerely hope and pray that you have not destroyed the chances of real victims getting the justice they deserve by your stupid grasping for fame. How dare you. I hope you rot._

It wasn't signed.

"Where did this come from?"

"The mail," Tim said with faint sarcasm.

"Was it through the post office?"

"No. There was no stamp on the envelope. Someone must have followed me somehow. It doesn't matter," he said. "This is what people think."

"You're taking one letter from a coward as what everyone thinks?" Gibbs asked.

"What if she's right?" Tim asked. "Whoever she is...what if I'm hurting more people than I'm helping by pursuing this? It's already hurting me, but that doesn't matter. I'm also hurting their families and what if I'm not helping anyone else either? What if I was the last person they ever would have...raped?"

"Do you really believe that, Timothy?" Ducky asked. "Do you really believe that the families of these men would have been better off with their husbands and fathers raping who knows how many people and then coming home to them without worrying about any of the things that could go wrong? Do you really believe that they were done? Do you really believe that you are causing harm?"

"How can I know?" Tim asked.

"You can't, but do you believe it?"

"It doesn't matter," Tim said.

"Yes, it does matter," Gibbs said. "It _matters_, McGee. It matters what you think. Do you think that this is really hurting other people?"

"I know it is."

"To the extent that testifying isn't worth it?"

"It's not for me. It can't change what happened to me."

"That's not what I asked."

"How do you determine whether it's worth it? Because I can't see that it's going to help me at all."

"McGee, do you think that testifying is worth it?" Gibbs demanded.

Tim decided that he didn't like having to be attacked like this. He shouted.

"It's the only thing in my life that _is_ worth it!"

"The only thing?" Ducky asked. "Nothing else matters? Your family doesn't matter? Your friends? Nothing else?"

"You're twisting my words! That's not what I mean! It can't be things that come from outside of me! If I'm bleeding inside, what does all the outside stuff matter? I'm still bleeding to death!"

"It helps the inside heal...if you'll let it."

"How?" Tim asked, almost pleading. "How can it help?"

"Because it helps you see outside yourself, see more than the bleeding. You cannot die of the wound you feel...unless _you _decide to do so. It may be painful, but death is due to no one but yourself. If you can bring yourself to see that there is much to look forward to, you will someday find that the wound has healed."

"When?" Tim asked, wanting to cry again.

"When you learn to see that there is more to your life than being raped."

Tim sat down. "I can't see anything else."

"Then, you must learn how to."

"How?"

"By trying, Timothy. By trying to see, even if you fail and need to back off for a while. Just try."

Gibbs sat down beside Tim.

"Nothing that happened to you is your fault. It may have been a mistake to go with them, but it wasn't because of stupidity. It was because you are a good man who wanted to help. It wasn't right what happened, but it wasn't your fault, Tim. ...and you need to believe that. None of it was your fault...and that letter? Forget about it. You know that men can be raped. You know that putting _any_ rapist away is only going to help not hurt. You are a good man who is fighting a hard battle...but you can win."

Tim didn't have the energy to fight anymore. He just shook his head.

Ducky held out his hand to help Tim up. He smiled in understanding.

"Come, Timothy. Take a breath, rest to fight again tomorrow."

"It won't help."

"Sleep and get back some energy. Put the vindictive words of this person, whoever she may be, out of your mind. They are not worth thinking about. So try to forget them. Try to move beyond them."

Tim shook his head again.

Ducky put an arm around Tim and conducted him to the spare room.

"Sleep," he said again. "Just sleep. Don't think about it more tonight. Sleep and recover."

Tim sighed and lay down on the bed.

He wanted Ducky and Gibbs to be right. He really wanted that.


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

Tim was back at work again the next morning. He worked as usual...with Abby, not out in the field. He said nothing about his time at Great Falls Park...and everyone understood that asking him was out of the question, but they did ask Gibbs and Ducky, meaning that they were all up to speed regarding Tim's state of mind. They wanted to find out who had sent that letter and rip that person a new one, but they knew that if Tim had been handling it for days and carrying it around, whatever fingerprints or DNA that might have been on it was long since smudged away. All they could do was try to give Tim enough support that he got better.

Then, came Christmastime. Vance had given Tim more than a week off for Christmas to be with his family..._away_ from DC. Sam and Naomi had come to pick him up, not wanting to force Tim to fly...and not trusting him to drive by himself (although that wasn't said). Gibbs arranged to take Jethro in while Tim was gone. Abby and Ziva volunteered to help Tim with his Christmas shopping...and were surprised when he declined. He had done most of it online, wanting things to be a surprise, a rare moment when he had seemed normal. Tim wanting to give them a present they didn't already know about. The day before he left for Ohio, he brought a pile of wrapped present in to NCIS. He wouldn't let them open the presents while he was there, but he had one for each of them, although he called Ziva's a Hanukkah gift.

They waited only until he was gone...and then they all took turns opening their gifts. They were...strange. But only at first. Then, they began to make sense. Ziva had been given a set of bed sheets. Sheets to replace the ones he had been sleeping on when he stayed at her house. Abby got a necklace to replace the one he had broken during one of his violent flashbacks. Ducky received a specially-made CD of music, mostly classical, representative of some of the things Ducky had tried to help him relax. The note said that Tim was trying to return the favor. Tony got a pack of DVDs. Action buddy flicks. No note included...and none needed. Jimmy got a joke book, with sections for undertakers, doctors, etc. (e.g. _A woman goes into an undertaker's to make arrangements for her husband's funeral. She tells the funeral director that she wants her husband to be buried in a dark blue suit. He says, "Wouldn't it just be easier to bury him in the black suit that he's wearing ?" But she insists that it must be a blue suit and asks him to buy one. When she comes back for the wake, she sees her husband in the coffin and he is wearing a beautiful blue suit. She tells the director how much she loves the suit and asks how much it says, "Actually, it didn't cost anything. The funniest thing happened. As soon as you left, another corpse was brought in wearing a blue suit. I noticed that they were about the same size, and asked the other widow if she would mind if her husband were buried in a black suit. She said that was OK. So... I switched the heads."_). Inside Tim had written a note saying that Jimmy could practice. ...and Gibbs, the most odd of all, a set of carpet swatches. No one understood until Gibbs noticed the blank check included and the note explaining that Tim wanted to replace the carpet he had ruined, something Gibbs had never bothered doing himself.

It was nice that Tim had put so much thought into his presents for them, but at the same time, it was sad that the only things he could think of were those related to his rape...except for Jimmy's. As far as they knew, his was just a gag gift. They didn't know why and Jimmy couldn't explain the choice, although he did find it amusing.

All they could hope was that Tim's visit with his family would be the thing that kick-started Tim's recovery...his emotional recovery, the healing of his soul.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim, wake up," Naomi said gently. "We're home."

Tim's eyes opened and looked around in momentary confusion and then realization.

"Right. Okay." He got out of the car and walked around to the back to get his bag and his parents' bags.

"Oh, Tim. You don't have to carry them all..."

"I got them, Mom," Tim said quietly. He walked toward the house and stopped, smiling faintly. "The lights look nice."

"Sarah insisted and she put them up with your father's assistance."

"I just wheeled around and held the strand so it didn't get tangled," Sam said as he rolled himself toward the ramp. "I did a lot more with the tree inside."

"I'm sure." Tim took a deep breath and walked into the house.

Naomi looked worriedly at Sam who just smiled and headed inside.

Dinner was awkward and quiet. There was little conversation. Sarah was almost as mute as Tim was, and only Sam was able to say anything. Tim helped clean up dinner and helped do the dishes. Then, rather than spend any time with his family, he claimed he was tired and headed toward the stairs.

"Tim?" Sam called after him.

Tim stopped and turned around. "Yeah?"

"Anything to say?" he asked with a small smile.

Tim paused for a few seconds. "'It is the calm and silent water that drowns a man.' It's an African proverb."

"Apt. Napoleon Bonaparte. 'What we do not see, what most of us never suspect of existing, is the silent but irresistible power which comes to the rescue of those who fight on in the face of discouragement.'"

"Aldous Huxley. 'Silence is as full of potential wisdom and wit as the unshown marble of great sculpture. The silent bear no witness against themselves.'"

"'And soon, too soon, we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again.' Thomas Moore."

Tim stopped looking at him. He had sunk down onto the steps.

"'Death not merely ends life, it also bestows upon it a silent completeness, snatched from the hazardous flux to which all things human are subject.' Hannah Arendt."

"Harvey Milk. 'Hope will never be silent.'"

"'I often regret that I have spoken; never that I have been silent.' Pubilius Syrus."

"Ralph Hodgson. 'Without a wish, without a will,  
I stood upon that silent hill  
And stared into the sky until  
My eyes were blind with stars and still  
I stared into the sky.'"

Tim looked at him in surprise. Sam rolled over close to him, leaned over and kissed the top of Tim's head.

"Just a suggestion. Good night, Tim. I'm glad you're here."

"'Night, Dad." Tim stood and walked up the stairs.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim lay on his bed awake for a long time. He didn't really want to sleep, but he needed to be alone. He'd been there for over an hour when there was a soft knock on his door.

"Timmy?"

Sarah. Tim rolled over. "Come in, Sarah."

"You're awake?"

Tim smiled a little. "I am now."

"Did I wake you up? I'm sorry."

"You didn't, Sarah. It's fine. What do you want?"

Sarah came in a couple of steps and then stopped. She seemed very uncomfortable.

"Tim...you know me. I'm...not the best at this stuff."

"What stuff?"

Sarah took another step and stopped again. "Tim...I just...I wanted to say that I'm...really sorry all this happened to you...and I love you. That's all."

Tim couldn't speak...but not for the reasons that had held him back in the past. He sat up as Sarah began to turn to leave.

"Sarah?" Tim asked.

"Yeah?"

...and for the first time in months, Tim did something he hadn't done, something he hadn't even _dreamed_ of doing. He lifted his arms, opening them, beckoning for Sarah to come over. She smiled even as she started to cry and moved over to him, sat down beside him and put her arms around him as Tim hugged her.

Tim began to cry and it was questionable who was comforting whom. Perhaps they were comforting each other, but Tim just held his little sister in his arms and cried.

There were no words to say on either side. No words _could_ be said and no words _needed_ to be said. It was just a moment when they were together, mourning what had happened and hoping for something better...but not needing to speak of it.

Sarah stayed for a while and then they let each other go and Tim went to sleep.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The next day was still quiet...but less awkward. Tim didn't talk much but he tended to at least be in the company of someone in the family. Sam still had grading to do and he had long before determined that he would get done much more quickly if he sequestered himself in his office rather than trying to do it at home. Essays could be done at home, but final exams needed to be done in his office.

After dinner, after the cleanup, Tim looked out at the sky. It was clear. He went upstairs and came back down a few minutes later dressed in warm clothes. He put his coat, hat and gloves over top and then grabbed a couple of blankets and a thermos of some hot chocolate from what Naomi had made earlier that day.

"Where you off to, Tim?" Naomi asked.

"Over by Dow Lake. It's a clear night."

"It is that," she agreed. "Would you mind some company?"

Tim thought about it and then shook his head. "No. I wouldn't."

"All right. Just give me a moment to get bundled up." She smiled. "Just like when you were younger. Out staring at the stars."

Tim nodded and smiled a little. Naomi quickly dressed warmly and waved to Sam and Sarah who were watching a movie together in the family room. The star-gazing had generally been something Tim did either by himself or with Naomi. For one thing, it was hard to get to good viewing areas when you had to make sure they were wheelchair accessible. So that meant Naomi. Sarah had got to the point where she didn't want to spend that kind of time with her brother, but Naomi wanted to be sure that Tim wasn't always alone.

They drove out to Strouds Run State Park and left the car in the lot. They walked out to a clearing near the lake and sat down, side by side. Neither of the spoke for a while. Tim didn't seem inclined to have any heart-to-heart talks, but this was the one place that he was most likely to open up...maybe because of the darkness that hid his face. Whatever torment he felt could only be discerned through his voice...which usually wasn't too hard to do if Tim wanted to confess something.

It was an hour of quiet sipping from the thermos and gazing upwards. Neither speaking. They were sitting close enough to take advantage of the shared body heat, but Tim wasn't interested in sharing. Naomi didn't want to leave this so unresolved. He had told them, more or less, how he was feeling, and they'd had phone calls from Gibbs and Ducky, but she wanted to _know_ what Tim was feeling, not just surmise.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"You cold?"

"Not really. You?"

"Not yet. I've got thicker skin than your father."

Tim's soft laugh was genuine but much too short.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"No."

"But you're doing it anyway?"

"Have to."

"Tim?"

"Yes?"

"I'm your mother."

"I know."

"Talk to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I don't know the words."

"Just try some, Tim. I'm not going to judge you on the quality of your speaking. There are no grades, no judgments. Just your mother who..." Naomi swallowed. "...who wants to know what's hurting her son...so she can help make it better."

"You can't kiss this pain away, Mom. Doesn't work like that."

"I never thought I could. Just let us in to where you are."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"It's a dark place. I don't want you there. No one should be there."

"Okay...but that means you shouldn't be there either."

"I don't have a choice. _You_ do."

"And I'm making the choice to be there if you are. Just let me in. Tell me, Tim. Tell me what happened to you. Tell me how you feel. I know it was horrible. I know it hurts you. Just let me know. I want to."

Tim stiffened beside her and didn't speak.

"I want to know where this place is that has you trapped. I don't care if it's dark and horrible. No parent wants to see her child stuck in a place like that when she can come in and help him out."

"I don't think you can," Tim whispered.

"Let me try."

"Mom, you don't want to know what they did to me."

"Yes, I do."

"No. You really don't."

"Yes, I do, Tim...because it happened to you. Just like I wanted to know about the bullies when they came after you. It hurt to know that you were being teased and pushed around, but I needed to know. You trusted me then. Trust me now."

"This is worse."

"I'm sure it is."

"I was raped, Mom," Tim whispered.

"I know."

Tim didn't say anything else, but Naomi sensed that this was a time when silence was called for. She needed to wait for Tim to say more.

"It wasn't just...my body. It was everything. My whole life." Tim took a breath and it came out in a cloud of vapor. "The word rape...it means more than sexual assault. It means...an act of violation...like the rape of the countryside in medieval battles. It used to mean the act of carrying away by force. Those definitions...they still fit because when...when you get raped...it's not just...it's not just that they're... It's that they have reached into your soul and killed it...or you wish they had killed it because that wouldn't hurt as much as the damage they inflicted."

Tim was still stiff beside her. He wasn't ready to be comforted just yet. Naomi may not have ever seen this kind of hurt in her son, but she knew well how to read his body language.

"That's why I'm in such a dark place. It's like...I can't...see any way out because the damage is too...too much."

Naomi listened and she tried to think of what to say. Unlike Sam, she wasn't good at coming up with the perfect words. She was just one who would try to say something and hope it was right...even if it wasn't eloquent. She held out her hand, thick gloves and all.

"Will you at least let me try to lead you a few steps out, Tim? Maybe I can't take you all the way, but I think I can get you on the right path...if you'll let me."

"How can you?"

"Because I'm your mother. I'm magic."

Tim let out a short laugh with another cloud of vapor. Naomi left her hand out. After a few seconds, he took her hand and then leaned against her.

"How do I get out, Mom?"

"Step by step. ...you've got to have the trust to take a step into the darkness before you see how far you've come...and how far you have to go...but you know what? You'll never be alone if you don't want to be." Naomi put her left arm around Tim as she held his hand. "There's always someone willing to help you take that scary step. Always."

"What if I can't make it, Mom?"

"You can...but if you're worried about it, what do you have to lose by trying? Nothing. ...and you have everything to gain. Your father and I will be there for the trial. Your friends have been there for you and will still be there for you. There are lots of people who want to help you. Some people won't believe you. They'll think you're lying. They'll think a lot of horrible things, but you can always know that we love you and we're not going to abandon you. Ever. No matter how long it takes. No matter how hard it gets. We'll always be there."

"I don't feel like I can make it."

"You can...even if I have to drag you out of this dark place you're in myself."

"I'm still afraid when I first wake up in the morning. Afraid that it's that first morning."

"And it never is, is it."

"No, but I'm afraid it is."

"Just remind yourself that it's not. If you try not to dwell on it, then you'll be able to move on more quickly."

"They wanted me to be hurt like this, you know," Tim said quietly, still leaning. "They wanted to ruin me so much that I'd never recover...and I think they've succeeded. I don't feel like I can."

"I've never seen you fail at anything. Even when you had setbacks, you were still able to succeed in the end."

"I failed fencing."

Naomi laughed. "Fencing. Something I forced you to take and you did your best with only a minor ding to your GPA. You made it to NCIS. You made it to the MCRT. You got into MIT and Johns Hopkins. You have fought against a lot of things. You can fight against the temptation to give up. I can tell that you want to...but can I ask you not to, Tim? Don't give up the chance to live again."

"What if I can't really live? I know what living is like...and I'm not doing it right now. I'm not."

"No, that's true. You're not. That doesn't mean you can't."

Tim didn't respond. Naomi took a deep breath of the chilly night air.

"Tim...look up."

"What?"

"Look up."

"Okay." He shifted until he was comfortably gazing up at the star-studded sky.

"What do you see when you look up there? Don't think about it. Just answer."

It was a game they had played when Tim was younger. Whatever caught their attention first was what they were supposed to say.

"The Pleiades," Tim said softly.

"Definition?"

"Open cluster of more than 100 stars but only about 9 are visible to the naked eye. Named for the seven sisters who were pursued by...some Greek hero. Orion, I think. What do you see?"

"Sirius. The brightest star in the northern sky. Alpha star of Canis Major."

Silence as they both looked.

"What else do you see?" she asked softly, changing the question without changing the words.

"Heaven," Tim breathed.

Naomi gently pulled Tim's head to lean on her shoulder.

"I see heaven."

"What else do you see?"

"Perfection."

Naomi waited for a few seconds before making her point. "...and you can see that through the darkness. In fact, you couldn't see it without the darkness."

"I don't need..."

"That's not my point, Tim," Naomi interrupted. "You can't see through the darkness inside you right now, but eventually...eventually, you will...and the world will seem that much more beautiful when you can appreciate it again...like you can still appreciate the heavens. ...and the world will still be there. Waiting for you."

Tim said nothing.

"There are ugly things in this world, Tim. There are horrible people, misguided people...monsters in disguise. ...but even in the perfection of the heavens that you see, there are violent collisions, explosions. Stars are born, age and die. Galaxies evolve, collide and are changed. It's violent but it's the way things happen. ...and the universe is still beautiful in spite of that. The world can still be beautiful even with the violence done to you. I would never wish it on anyone, but even though it's happened...Tim, you can still see beauty, can still appreciate perfection...and you can still heal."

Another long silence.

"Tim, I love you. I love you no matter what happens to you, no matter what you do. ...and you know what we've had to deal with in the past... Please, I beg you...don't make me suffer through that again. I don't know if I could take another suicide attempt in my family."

Tim slipped his free hand around her waist but didn't answer.

"Please, Tim? Even if that's all that will keep you from giving up completely, will you not put me through that again?"

Tim looked up again.

"M32. The Andromeda Galaxy. Our closest spiral neighbor at about 2 million light years."

Naomi followed his eyes upward. "Aldebaran. Alpha star in Taurus. Smack dab in the middle of the Hyades."

Tim lowered his head, leaning back on her shoulder.

"I love you, Mom."

"I love you, too."

"The hot chocolate is gone."

"Then, it's time to go," Naomi said, not referring back to her question. Tim had heard it. She knew that. He would answer it or not. Although it hurt, she couldn't force him.

They got up, walked together to the car and just before Naomi opened the door, Tim put his hand on her arm. She looked at him.

"I'll try for you. I can't try for me yet...but I'll try. For you, Mom."

Naomi hugged Tim tightly and tried not to let the tears come out in her voice.

"Thank you, Tim. That's all I ask."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Three days later..._

"Wake up, Tim! It's Christmas!"

Tim opened his eyes at Sarah's determinedly happy voice. He managed to smile and dragged himself out of bed and then down the stairs. When he got to the living room where the tree was sitting, Sam was there, smiling.

"What, Dad?"

"Merry Christmas, Tim," he said.

"Merry Christmas."

"I thought of it."

"What?"

"The perfect quotation. It came to me when I woke up this morning."

"What Churchill quote is it?"

"Not Churchill. Theodore Roosevelt."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"What is it?" Tim asked, actually interested.

"'It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat.'"

Tim sat on the couch. He could hear Sarah and Naomi getting breakfast in the kitchen.

"That's you, Tim. The strong man...and I'm proud to be your father. Merry Christmas."

There seemed to be no other reaction possible. Tim couldn't have stopped himself no matter how much instinctive fear he felt at initiating the physical contact. He got up, crossed the room and hugged his father as tightly as he could. He hugged him as if he could never let him go.

"I don't want to fall."

"It doesn't matter if you do...as long as you keeping trying. Roosevelt might as well have been talking about you. ...because it's all true."

Tim began to cry. "I love you, Dad."

"I love you," Sam said softly. "Now, if we don't have breakfast soon, we'll never get to open our presents."

Tim laughed but he didn't let go until Sarah came in to get them. The awkwardness had been diminishing among them...and today, Tim thought he might understand Ducky's pronouncement about the power of being with one's family.

Merry Christmas.


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

_Three weeks later..._

Tim woke up and wondered why his alarm was going off. ...but wait, that wasn't right. It was too faint to be his alarm.

_Where am I?_

Then, he rolled over and remembered.

_The trial starts tomorrow._

He sat up when he heard Ducky coming down the stairs. It had been his alarm. Tim was swiftly heading toward a level of intense stress about his part in the trial. He didn't want to be the one who had to say all this...but he was.

There was a soft knock on the door...but it wasn't Ducky who came in.

"Hey, Probie. You ready?"

"I just got up."

"Yeah, I know." Tony was being serious, not joking this time. In fact, he'd _been_ a lot more serious since all this had started.

"You didn't have to stay here, you know, Tony."

"I know."

"Ducky going to insist on feeding us before we go?"

"I'll bet he does." Tony started to go out of the room, to let Tim get dressed and then he turned back. "Why did you ask me to come with you today, McGee?"

Tim looked at him. "I don't know. It just...seemed like the right thing. Do you mind?"

"No. I don't." Tony hitched his shoulder and then smiled. "Gets me out of work this morning."

"Thanks, Tony."

"You're welcome, McGee." Tony closed the door and Tim focused on getting ready for the day.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

The door to the courtroom opened.

"Okay, Tim. Come on in. I know you've seen places like this before, but it probably best to get you used to where you'll be."

Tim did know what courtrooms looked like. He'd been in them as part of NCIS. He'd been in them as a teenager. ...but this was different and he appreciated the prosecutor taking the time to get him prepared just for what was going to happen to him.

Tony sat down on a bench while the prosecutor led Tim through the little gate and up to the stand.

"Take a seat in the witness box, Tim."

Tim sat down and looked around the room. It seemed much too large. Cavernous and empty.

"Now, this case has generated a bit of a buzz. There aren't very many male rape cases that come to trial. So people will be interested and there will likely be a lot of people in the room.

"I think I'd rather it stayed empty," Tim said, managing a weak smile.

"I'm sure."

"So when will I be testifying?"

"Probably not for a week at least. We have to start with opening arguments and then any opening motions will have to be dealt with. I'll call some of your coworkers and friends as initial witnesses to set the stage for what I'll be asking you."

"I'm on the list, Probie," Tony said from his seat. "Gotta tell how you came to their attention."

Tim looked at the prosecutor and then at Tony. "Tony..."

"No way, McGee. What happened needs to be told...and that includes what I did."

"That's not necessary...is it?"

"It is," the prosecutor said. "The jury is going to wonder how they even found you. Why you? Why not someone else? We have to answer the question before they even think to ask it."

"It's no biggie, McGee," Tony said. "Promise. Not a problem."

"So...they're first?" Tim asked finally.

"Yeah. We'll get all the establishing action done first and then your testimony. You'll get notice in advance."

Tim nodded and stared at his hands...and then over at the table where the defendants would sit.

"Okay, Tim? I want you to remember that you should never look at the defendants or the defense in general. There are two exceptions to that. I'll ask you to identify the men who raped you and you'll have to look at them then. ...and when the defense asks you questions, you'll have to look at them, but otherwise, don't spend any time looking at them. You can look at me, look at the jury, even look at the judge if it's necessary. The other place that you can and _should_ look, especially if you're feeling overwhelmed, is at your friends in the court. Understand?"

Tim pulled his eyes away from the empty table and swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, I understand."

"Good. Now, I'll take you step by step through everything that happened. I'll interrupt at the points we discussed before to introduce evidence. We'll go through the entire assault and what you did after that. What has happened since. If that's used to question your mental faculties, I have Dr. Warren on hand to testify of your sanity."

"Thanks," Tim said, looking around the courtroom, wanting this less and less as time went on.

"Tim, I want you to listen to me for a minute, okay?"

"Yeah?" Tim was still looking at the view from the witness box.

"Tim!"

Tim wrenched his eyes onto the prosecutor. "Yeah?"

"I want you to remember something. You are not the one on trial here. The defense will try to poke holes in your testimony. That's their job. They'll try to make you trip up, try to make you forget details or look unreliable. If they try to rush you, don't let them. Take a drink of water, take a breath...ask the judge for a break if you need to...and if you start to feel overwhelmed, look at me and I'll object."

"For what reason?"

"Doesn't matter," he said and smiled. "Sometimes, objections aren't for any real reason but just to make an interruption."

Tim smiled back weakly.

"That go for the defense, too?"

"Of course. The biggest thing, though, is that you don't let the jury start to think of you as someone who deserved what happened, even subconsciously. There's a part of some of them that will want to deny this kind of thing happens outside of a prison...and certainly not to a healthy, normal man like yourself. You stick to what you know. You know exactly who the two men are. You know what they did. They are the men who raped you. You know this and don't let the defense try to question it. ...and don't get mad if they do. Just be calm and answer. If you start to get emotional, that's fine, but don't lose control."

Tim nodded.

"What if I do?"

"Then, we'll work with it. The trial isn't over if you lose it...but it'll be better if you don't. All right...so here's how it's going to go. You'll be called up and..."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Five days later..._

"The government calls Special Agent Timothy McGee to the stand."

Tim took a deep breath. Naomi squeezed his hand tightly and then let him stand. The walk to the stand seemed to take a very long time. There were so many people in the room, so many eyes on him. The jury was sitting to one side. The defense...but Tim didn't look at them. He walked slowly to the stand and sat down.

He was sworn in but didn't really hear what was being asked him. He gave an affirmative answer and then had a moment of pure panic.

_What am I doing here? How is this possibly going to help anything? What am I–?_

Then, the prosecutor nodded to Tim, standing in a position that blocked Tim's view of the defendants. Tim looked back toward his friends and family, all sitting together on a bench. Sam's wheelchair was in the aisle. His hearing came back and the room seemed less fuzzy.

"Agent McGee?"

"Yes." Tim nodded, answering the unspoken question.

"Good. Now, we've already heard the events that led up to the assault. Could you please tell the court what you experienced."

Tim swallowed and looked sideways at the jury.

"I know that this was a difficult experience for you; so take your time and tell the court what happened."

"Okay." Tim took a breath. "After I tripped and spilled my drink on them..."

"Who?" the prosecutor asked.

"The defendants."

"Thank you. Go on."

"After I spilled my drink, I felt bad about it and I wanted to make it up to them. I offered to pay for whatever the dry cleaning bill would be, but one of them told me that if I would help him get his friend back to their room, he'd consider us even."

"Could you please tell the court who spoke to you?"

The prosecutor stood aside and Tim met the calm, cool gazes of his rapists. He hated having to see them, but he pointed to Lane.

"He's the one I spilled my drink on."

"Let the record show that Agent McGee is pointing to Lane Richardson."

"And he is the one who was supposed to be drunk."

"Let the record show that Agent McGee is pointing to Mitchell Graham. Are you sure of these identifications?"

"I'll never forget them. Ever."

"Continue."

"I helped Mr. Richardson get Mr. Graham to his feet. He seemed drunk to me. I didn't have any suspicion that he might not have been. I told my friends I was going to help him and then just go straight home." Tim took a breath. "The hotel was just across the street and I went with them up to their room. Uh...Mr. Richardson said that I could put Mr. Graham on the bed. I started to do so...but then..." Tim looked down.

The prosecutor let Tim be silent for a few seconds.

"And then?"

"Then...um...Mr. Graham suddenly wasn't drunk anymore. He grabbed me and pinned me to the bed."

Tim was shaking a little, but he kept going through the horrible moments. Occasionally, the prosecutor interrupted to enter in photos as evidence or to clarify what Tim had said. The defense tried to object once but he was overruled.

"...and when I finally started to...to...put my clothes back on, I couldn't find one of my socks. I looked all over the room for it, but it wasn't there. So...I had to put on my shoe over my bare foot."

"And you never found it?"

"No. I couldn't find it."

"What did the sock look like?"

"It wasn't a special sock. It was gray, but I'd written my initials in the toe because I do my laundry in a public laundry room and had lost socks before."

The prosecutor brought an evidence bag to the stand. "Agent McGee, to the best of your knowledge, is this your sock?"

Tim looked at it, found his permanent-markered initials in the toe and nodded.

"Yes. That looks like my sock." Tim's hands were shaking when he handed it back to the prosecutor. Tim knew that it was visible to the jury.

"The government enters this into evidence. Let the record show that this sock was retrieved from the home of Mitchell Graham and that Rachel Graham is willing to testify of her discovery of it should the jury wish to hear her testimony."

Tim watched as Mitch turned in his seat and looked back behind him toward two women who were seated together on a bench. They looked miserable...and Tim knew who they must be. It made his heart ache...and he began to feel overwhelmed by everything. He looked up at the judge.

"Could I have a break, please?" he asked softly.

The judge nodded.

"We'll take a ten-minute recess," he said and stood.

Tim stood on shaky legs and walked back toward his family, trying not to look at the two men sitting at the defense table...nor at the two women who looked so devastated sitting at the back of the courtroom.

He sank down beside his parents, trembling. He buried his face in his hands.

"You're doing great, Tim," Naomi said. "Almost done."

"With this," he whispered.

"Yes."

"You can do it, Tim," Sam said. "You're doing fine."

"I hate this. I really _really_ hate it."

"But it's almost over."

"Tim, can I give you a hug?" Abby asked from behind him.

Tim nodded and turned around so that Abby could wrap her arms around him comfortingly for a few minutes.

Then, all too soon, it was time to return to the stand. He was reminded that he was still under oath and then he finished telling his account.

"Thank you, Agent McGee. Your witness."

The defense attorney got up and approached Tim. He asked questions about how much Tim had had to drink on that night, hoping to trip him up that way. Tim's account agreed with the others'. He tried to question the times and the location...but Tim wasn't able to be distracted by those things. Then, the defense pulled out what he obviously saw as his secret weapon.

"Agent McGee."

"Yes?"

"You glossed over some details during the alleged 'rape', did you not?"

"I wasn't aware you wanted to know every moment of what happened to me."

"Oh, just some details that I think are germaine."

Tim said nothing, remembering the injunction that he didn't have to speak if no question was asked.

"During the alleged rape, would you say that you _enjoyed_ yourself?"

"No!" Tim said instantly.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes. I'm very sure."

"Did you become aroused?" the defense attorney asked bluntly.

"Pardon me?"

"You know what the word means, I'm sure, Agent McGee, a well-educated and experienced man like yourself. But I'll be more explicit. Did you have an erection?"

Tim felt as though his heart had turned to lead and plummeted down to his toes. This was one of the hardest things he had to deal with from his experience, knowing that his body had reacted in the way it had...remembering how that felt. He began to shake again, but he tried not to show it.

"Answer the question, please, Agent McGee."

"Yes," Tim whispered. "Yes, I did."

"Did it go farther than that?"

"Yes."

"And you insist that you didn't enjoy the experience? That it was something you didn't want?"

Tim felt the tears and he didn't want to shed them. He didn't want to show his utter humiliation to this man whose job was to tear him down.

"You did want it, didn't you. It was just that you didn't realize that it would go so far...and then after it was over, you decided that it was rape. Didn't you."

"No," Tim said finally. He knew his voice was shaking. He knew that he had tears in his eyes. He knew that he didn't look anything like an NCIS agent right then. He knew all that, but he also knew that he had to answer. "No. I didn't want it. I didn't ask for it. I did not enjoy it. Male sexual arousal is an involuntary physical response to certain stimuli." He looked up at the defense attorney as the tears escaped and fell down his cheeks. "It happens regardless of whether the sex is voluntary or coerced. It–"

"That will be all. Thank you. No further questions."

The prosecutor got up instantly. "Redirect, Your Honor."

The judge nodded.

"Agent McGee, finish what you were saying."

Tim looked at the prosecutor and then up at the judge. "Your Honor...I would like to show something to the jury, if I...I have the court's permission." He looked back at the prosecutor and saw his surprise at this unexpected turn of events.

"What is that?"

"I would like to show them my wrists, Your Honor...as part of my explanation. They've...seen the pictures, but it's a part of _my_ body and they should see them as a part of me, not just as a disembodied photo."

"Do you think this is necessary, Counselor?"

"I do, Your Honor," he said, covering his surprise quickly.

"Objection!" the defense said, standing. "Unfairly prejudicial!"

"The victim in this case wishes to explain a point the defense raised," the prosecutor said instantly. "If he did not wish the jury to hear the full explanation, he should not have taken that tack."

The judge looked at Tim and then at the two attorneys...and then back at Tim.

"Overruled...but keep this short, Counselor."

"Yes, Your Honor. Agent McGee, if you would come down from the stand and approach the jury." His eyes held a warning that Tim shouldn't overdramatize this or take very long in his demonstration.

Tim nodded and stood up. He walked over to the jury and rolled up his sleeves until the scars on his wrists were visible.

"When a man is sexually aroused, there are certain physiological reactions that occur," Tim said. "When the stimulus is through anal sex, erection often does occur and it doesn't matter whether the man wanted it or whether it was forced on him. I want to show you my wrists. You can see that there are scars here still. This is from wounds that became infected...wounds inflicted by the defendants as they held me down while I tried to get away. Yes, my body reacted to the attack in a way that could be interpreted as enjoyment, and I have a hard time with that fact, but the scars on my wrists from how tightly they had to hold on to me to keep me from escaping...that should tell you that I was not there willingly. I did not want to be raped. I tried to fight them. I tried to get away, and I couldn't...and these scars are my evidence."

Tim turned around and walked back to the stand and sat down.

"Thank you, Your Honor," he whispered.

"No further questions," the prosecutor said.

"You may step down," the judge said.

Tim stood and walked away.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Two days later..._

Lane and Mitch had been friends for more than fifteen years. They had shared everything equally. Neither got ahead of the other because they lifted each other to each new level...and they had fallen the same way.

...until their lawyers spoke to them and recommended that they plead guilty in the hopes of getting a lighter sentence. The prosecution's case was too strong. They had plenty more evidence they could pull out in the form of multiple men ready to testify and establish a history of sexual deviance. There was very little chance that a jury would find them innocent, even with the victim being male. A guilty plea was their only option to avoid life without parole.

Finally, the unity that had guided Lane and Mitch to such successes broke.

The very next morning after they met with their lawyers, Mitchell Graham was discovered in his cell. Dead. A suicide...leaving Lane behind to suffer whatever punishment the law saw fit to inflict on him.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

_Accused serial rapist commits suicide_

The newspaper was on the floor with the front page headline shouting out its contents. Ducky found it and Tim wasn't there. He had clearly picked up the paper but hadn't gone any farther than that headline.

"Timothy?" he called, a little worried for his guest...and his friend. "Timothy!"

There was a sound of breaking glass from the kitchen and Ducky followed it to find Tim kneeling on the floor picking up the larger pieces of what had previously been a glass. His face was turned toward the floor and his hands were shaking.

"Timothy?" Ducky repeated gently.

"I-I dropped the g-glass. I'm s-s-sorry," Tim said.

"It's all right, lad. Let me get the broom. We can clean it up quickly enough. It appears to have been empty."

Tim gave a shaky nod.

"Y-Yeah. I-I-I was trying to...but it slipped...I couldn't...hold on to it." He tried to laugh but it came out sounding not much like a laugh. "Shaking too much."

Tim moved out of the way when Ducky brought the broom over but he stayed on his knees rather than standing. Ducky decided just to clean up the glass first and then continue the conversation. He swept up all the pieces of glass he could find and then dumped them in the garbage.

"You saw the newspaper headline, I assume?"

"Yeah."

"It took you by surprise?"

"Yeah."

"How are you feeling now?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think you could get up?"

"I don't know." Another not-laugh. "I...am...feeling pretty shaky."

"Do you mind if I sit on a chair instead of joining you on the floor?"

Tim shook his head with another not-laugh. "No. Not at all."

Ducky pulled a chair over near where Tim was still kneeling...shaking. He put a calming hand on Tim's bent head and felt how violent Tim's trembling was. He was really affected by the news.

"Do you feel this is a...positive development?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?" Ducky asked, trying to get to the heart of the matter. He wasn't sure what it would take to get Tim to really speak, if he even knew himself what the problem was.

"I don't know."

Gently, Ducky reached down and lifted Tim's head so that he was looking directly at him. Confusion was, indeed, the dominating emotion on Tim's face, but it wasn't all.

"I...I wanted them dead," Tim said finally. "I did. I can't...pretend that I...that I didn't...but...I... He committed suicide."

"Yes."

"Only one of them...but they both...both of them raped me. As far as I...can remember...they did it the exact same number of times. Both of them. ...but only one? But...would it have been better if... I just don't know. I..." Tim looked at the floor again. "I saw their wives at the trial the day I testified. They looked...so sad, Ducky. Their lives are ruined by this."

"Something you can understand."

Tim nodded. "So many lives...destroyed. They have kids...kids who will...grow up knowing that their fathers are... Their wives...and...and now. Suicide? What's going to happen next?"

"The trial will have to continue. Surely, you don't want that to stop."

"No...but..." Tim shook his head, confusion regaining its hold on his face. "I just don't know. They didn't care when they were doing it to me! They didn't care then...but they only care when it's them getting caught. ...and now one of them is dead...and I just...I don't know. It doesn't...seem right."

"It may not be, but life doesn't always happen as it should...only as it does." Ducky hesitated and then broached a delicate subject. "How are you feeling yourself, Timothy?"

Tim looked down.

"I think I can get up now." He pushed himself to his rather shaky feet and walked out of the kitchen.

Ducky sighed and sat back. It wasn't logical to think that there would be instant recovery, but he had hoped for a bit more than there had been. It had only been a few days since his testimony. He supposed it was too much to ask to get a real understanding of how he was feeling, if his outlook had improved at all.

He just wished he could tell.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Two days later..._

Tim got to the courthouse earlier than usual. His parents would be there, but everyone else had to be at work. The defense had asked to speak with the prosecutor. While Tim was the victim, he wasn't part of any negotiations that might have happened. He wondered what would be coming today. The prosecution had finished its case the day before and the defense had requested some extra time to deal with some of the prosecution's evidence. The prosecutor had seemed particularly happy about that, not protesting the extra time, and the judge had granted it. Today, the defense's case was supposed to begin. Tim honestly couldn't imagine how they could get out of it, even with the added complication of Mitchell Graham's suicide. ...but he was also afraid of what they might end up saying about _him_.

He walked into the courtroom and took a seat. He supposed he didn't _need_ to be here for every part of the trial, but it felt as though he did. He had to know what would happen, what would be said and done here. It mattered so much to him to know that his rapists would be convicted. He _needed_ that.

"Ah, Tim. You're here early. Good. Come with me."

Tim looked up and involuntarily tensed at the hand on his shoulder. It was the prosecutor.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A new development. Not unexpected but appreciated. We need to talk about it in private."

"Okay." Tim got up and followed him out of the courtroom and into a small conference room down the hall.

"Have a seat, Tim."

Tim sat.

"Lane Richardson is ready to change his plea to guilty in exchange for a lighter sentence."

"How much lighter?"

"Instead of seeking life in prison, he'll get fifty years. No parole for either one since this is federal court, not state."

"Fifty years."

"Yes."

"For being a serial rapist."

"This trial is only for the attack on you, Tim. There are a few other cases in the offing from what I've heard. He's not getting out anytime soon."

"But he'll get out eventually."

"It's going to be remote because each of the other cases will be individual and the sentences will be stacked up. Just because he gets fifty years in this trial doesn't mean he won't get another fifty years in another case. The more convictions the more that are likely to happen. We finished up the negotiations last night. Unless the defense tells me that his client rejects the deal, the trial will be over today, except for the sentencing which will be quick since we've already come to an agreement on it. The only thing that could prevent it is if the judge rejects the plea for some reason. He has the right to do that and it does happen sometimes...but not very often."

Tim nodded, feeling that same yawning void that he'd felt when he'd learned that one of his rapists was dead by his own hand.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"This happens more often than you might think. Plea bargains are very common in criminal trials."

Tim looked at him. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?"

The prosecutor had been standing, talking quickly, mostly acting as though he were in a hurry, but he paused and looked at Tim, really looked at him. He sat down.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Has _any_ part of this trial actually made you feel any better about what happened to you?"

Tim looked at him in surprise at the understanding tone in his voice.

"I've prosecuted a number of rape cases over the years, almost exclusively female as you might guess, and not once have I seen someone who heals because of their rapist getting the maximum sentence or because their rapist got the lightest sentence or any in between. When convictions happen, when a guilty plea is entered, justice is being done...but justice, in and of itself, doesn't make things better."

Tim stared at the table. He heard the prosecutor sitting back in his chair.

"When I was first starting to study law, I had a professor who made us write an essay on what justice meant. It's stuck with me through thirty years of practice. I was surprised to discover than no single definition of justice indicated anything about mercy or about improving life or anything like that. Justice isn't about making things better. It's about making them right, about balancing the scales. Justice is about punishing the guilty for breaking the law. Lawyers, when they do their jobs right, get justice. It doesn't always happen. This system is convoluted and broken in some ways, but it's still the best option we have. We have laws. When people break them, they need to be punished for breaking those laws. I'm sorry to say, but the victims don't figure in the equation too much except in terms of what was done to them. Yes, victim impact statements can bring a human touch to a trial, but that's not what it's about."

"So nothing will make it better?"

"I didn't say that. I just say that you can't look to this trial to do it...no matter the outcome."

Tim thought about it for a minute or two. The prosecutor didn't rush him. Finally, he looked up.

"Is this getting justice?" he asked. "Do you think that this plea bargain is getting justice, balancing the scales?"

"Yes, I do. It won't balance them completely because you have lost something that can't be returned. ...but it does balance them somewhat. The next trial will do the same. In the end, we all know that some things can't be completely balanced. Even with the death penalty. Taking a life for a life does not return life to the one who was killed. The scales aren't completely balanced, but we do our best."

"Okay." Tim nodded and stood up.

The prosecutor followed suit.

"I'd just like to say, Tim, that I've been very impressed with your fortitude in this trial. The only other male rape case I prosecuted ended when the victim suddenly changed tacks and refused to testify. He wouldn't be involved in it at all and without his testimony, we had little choice but to withdraw the charges. Was he being honest? I guess I'll never know for sure, but I think he let the pressure of society's perceptions get to him. I don't think he was weak. He was human. ...and your determination to see this through has been amazing to witness." He smiled suddenly. "Don't spread that around. I don't want people thinking I've gone soft."

Tim smiled in return and followed him to the courtroom. He sat down beside his parents who had come in while he was talking with the prosecutor. They looked at him with a question in their eyes. He just shook his head and indicated silently that something was going to happen.

Lane was sitting beside his lawyers. Tim was surprised at how...small and alone he looked without Mitch sitting beside him. It was as though, without his partner, he had nothing going for him. Both men were married, but it seemed as though maybe they had become extensions of each other and one couldn't succeed without the other. It wasn't pity that Tim felt as he stared at the dejected man in front of him, but it wasn't a sense of triumph either. He didn't feel victorious in any way. He just...thought maybe he might understand something of what Lane felt. In his own twisted way, Lane's life had been destroyed just as Tim's had and as his family's lives had...all through his own actions.

_All through them...and now they're paying for it._

"All rise!"

The court stood as the judge came in.

"Be seated."

Tim and Naomi sat down. When the defense stood to enter the guilty plea, the judge called both counselors to the bench.

"He's pleading guilty?" Naomi whispered to Tim.

Tim nodded. "In exchange for a lighter sentence. He can get out in fifty years."

"Fifty years?" Sam asked. "He could get a life sentence easy."

"Yeah. I know."

"Are you all right with this, Tim?" Naomi asked.

Tim thought about how to answer but before he had formulated it, the judge's voice rang out through the court.

"Is Timothy McGee present?"

Tim was startled and hesitantly put up his hand.

"Agent McGee, will you approach?"

Tim looked at Naomi and Sam before nodding and coming forward.

"The defendant is changing his plea to guilty in exchange for not getting a life sentence."

"Yes, Your Honor. I was told."

"As a federal judge, I have plenty to do and clearing cases from my docket is important, but as the victim in this case, I would like to know what you think about this."

"What does my opinion matter, Your Honor?"

"As the victim, you have the right to make a statement regarding the impact the crime has had on you and if you feel justice would be served by the bargain made by the prosecutor."

Tim looked at the prosecutor and the defense. Then, he looked back, not at Lane Richardson although his gaze did pass over the man who did not look up from the table. No, his eyes fell on the same two women he'd seen before. Would it really be justice to lengthen their public misery? Would that be justice? ...and even if it was, he, Timothy McGee, was not bound by the same statutes as lawyers were. He didn't have to think only about justice. He could consider mercy as well. Not mercy toward his rapist. He felt none. ...but mercy to the other innocent victims involved in this horrible experience. He could try to make _someone's_ life better, even if his own couldn't be improved by what happened here.

"Agent McGee?"

Tim looked back at the judge. "Your Honor, I'm not trained in law. I'm not an expert in the requirements of justice. All I know is that fifty years, a hundred years...a lifetime...none of that can bring back what the defendants took from me. That night may have permanently destroyed me. Most of the time, it feels as though it has. ...but even so, that doesn't mean I have to lengthen the suffering of others. That's not justice. There are other victims in this crime, and to...to try to get justice by getting a longer prison term...I don't think it would help. I want my life as it was back...and nothing can bring that to me. The death of Mitchell Graham didn't do that. The prison term, no matter its length, of Lane Richardson can't do that. Nothing can. I'm a male victim of rape. That stigmatizes me in the eyes of some people, people who think that it can't happen to men, people who have decided that the only way a man could be raped is if he's weak, if he secretly _wanted_ to be raped. There will probably be other effects that I discover the longer I live with this."

Tim took a deep breath.

"Nothing that happens in this courtroom can help with that. The victims of this crime, all of us, we've suffered enough. Continuing with the trial...that will only make it last longer. So...I guess what I'm saying is that I've had my soul ripped to pieces and nothing can change that. ...I don't have a problem with accepting the prosecution's choice to plea bargain."

The judge looked at him for a long time in silence and then he nodded.

"Thank you, Agent McGee. You may be seated."

Tim walked back and sat beside Naomi who put her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

"The court accepts the guilty plea. Sentencing will take place on the first of February. The court is adjourned until that time." He banged his gavel and stood.

"Tim? Are you sure you're okay with this?"

Tim shrugged, feeling suddenly very tired. All he wanted was to go and hide in his bed, hide from the world for a while and not have to face it with all its complexity...all its corruption. He wanted to hide from it all.

"I'm sure you don't want to go out anywhere."

"No, I don't."

"Okay. You want to see anyone?"

"Not today. Mom, could I just go home for a while...and see you tomorrow? I just want...need to be alone for a while."

"Okay. Okay, Tim." Naomi hugged him.

"Don't forget," Sam said, pulling Tim down to his level, "you're the strongest man I know, Tim."

"Not really, Dad."

"Yes, really. What you said just now...you may not see it yet, but you've healed more than you think."

Tim smiled a little and walked to the doors of the courtroom and then left, knowing his parents wouldn't mind his sudden departure. He got to his car and paused before unlocking it.

"Excuse me...Mr. McGee?"

The voice was rough with tears. Tim turned around.

"Could we talk to you for a moment...please?"


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

Tim was instantly wary. He recognized them.

"About what?"

"I'm Rachel...still Graham, but not for long. This is Patricia, Patsy."

The other woman was dry-eyed but only just. "Soon to be Lin. Our husbands are the men who raped you."

Tim nodded. "I r-recognize you from the courtroom. I saw you there."

Rachel nodded and wiped her eyes. "Yes. We've been there, retained as witnesses and...well, we needed to be there anyway."

"What do you want?" Tim asked. He pitied these women. He really did, but he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to them. There were too many inappropriate thoughts going through his head. These were two women who had loved the men who had raped him.

"It was..." Rachel stopped and looked down.

"Maybe it's bad timing," Patsy said. "Maybe we shouldn't have intruded at all. ...but we wanted to thank you for everything you've done...and we might not have another chance now that the trial is over."

"What do you mean?" Tim asked. "I haven't done anything really. Just testified."

"Yes...but you also took pity on us...even though what happened to you... It must have been so much worse for you than it has been for us, but you still let the trial stop. Lane...he could have been put in prison for the rest of his life. He probably would have been. You could...describe everything that happened to you. I don't..." Patsy smiled a little. "I don't think there's anything we could possibly say to make things any better for you."

"We wanted to say thank you, though," Rachel said. "And...and it's been hard for us realizing what our husbands are. It's...like a nightmare you can't wake up from. We've moved. We're both working now. Our oldest children are...having trouble with knowing what's happened, even in vague terms. The younger ones just don't understand why their daddies can't come home." Rachel's eyes filled with tears again.

Tim was suddenly struck by the realization that her husband had killed himself. Yes, her husband had been a monster, but she had loved him...and it must have been hard to deal with both the knowledge of what he'd done _and_ the fact that he was now dead.

"Sorry," she said, wiping her eyes. "This isn't what I was planning on saying to you. I didn't want to dump our problems in your lap. You have so many other things to worry about."

"And...well, I know it probably doesn't mean much coming from us," Patsy said, "but we wanted to apologize for everything that's been done to you. It's awful to know that a man I loved was so far from what I thought he was. He's...not the man I married. I hope. I hope that he wasn't this way when I married him. I hope I would have known, but we didn't. If nothing else, I hope you'll believe me when I say that we had no idea what our husbands were doing."

"I believe you," Tim said. He almost turned to leave but he found that he couldn't. He was linked to these two women even though he'd never met them before...and he couldn't leave them standing there so bereft. "You don't have to apologize. Not at all. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm sorry that you've had to...to deal with this. It's...not something I'd wish on anyone...especially because...you're the ones who reported on them, weren't you?"

Rachel nodded. "I found your sock. It's so strange how...how something so very simple could turn your life upside-down."

"I don't know if I could have done the same were our situations reversed."

Patsy shook her head. "No, I think you could have." She smiled. "You're a good man. You would have done it. Before this...I would never have thought of a man as being a victim of rape...but I was wrong about that. I'm actually sorry that I am. For your sake...but...I don't know. I'm sorry for all that happened to you. No one deserves that...and you're a good man who shouldn't have been...ruined. I really hope that you aren't permanently destroyed as you said in the courtroom."

To Tim's surprise, Rachel reached out and touched his wrists. She turned them over and felt the rough scars.

"These were bad."

Tim nodded mutely. He wasn't used to having people touch the scars. Even he avoided that as much as possible...particularly because the temptation to rub them sometimes welled up inside him again and he didn't want to have to expend the energy required to resist.

"How long did it take for them to heal?" Rachel's voice was still rough, still choked with tears, but she was looking at the scars, not at Tim.

"A few months. I kept reopening them," Tim said softly. Part of him wanted to pull away from her examination. The rest of him was just wondering why this seemed so important to her.

"Why?"

"Rachel," Patsy said, some worry in her voice.

"Because...I would rub my wrists...and other places where they had touched me. When I hurt myself, I didn't feel their hands."

"And now?"

"As long as I don't think about it too much...I don't feel them anymore."

"So that's gone away?"

"Mostly. Sometimes...sometimes, I still feel them."

"But you don't hurt yourself anymore?"

"Not like that," Tim said.

Rachel looked up, tears in her eyes, but she smiled.

"Then, you're not destroyed."

"What?"

She lifted Tim's wrist. "You don't do what you used to do. You don't have to. You don't feel the same need." Then, Rachel put her hands on Tim's shoulders. She was shorter than Tim by a few inches but she was still...a mother right at that moment. "You're getting better, Mr. McGee. You're getting better. You have to see that."

Tim didn't talk to many people outside of his family and close friends anymore. He didn't like being among strangers. He wouldn't have even considered the possibility of talking to anyone else about how he felt...particularly not these two women, but there was something in Rachel's eyes, something about the way Patsy was holding her arm.

"Then, why don't I _feel _better?" he asked.

"Don't you?" Patsy asked. "You don't feel..." She closed her eyes for a second or two as it hit her anew just what she was talking about. "...feel them on you now...not as much. That implies that it's better than it was."

"Mr. McGee...I'm still at the stage where I'm reopening the wounds...but you've moved past that," Rachel said. "You can go farther. You've got to be able to go farther."

...and then, Tim understood why Rachel was so insistent. Even if they never saw each other again (as was likely), she saw hope in the fact that he had not been utterly destroyed by what her husband had done to him...that he could perhaps get back to himself again. She saw, in Tim, the possibility of life resuming its normal course once again. ...and she couldn't let that go.

As laughable as it seemed to Tim, she had her hopes pinned on him. ...and he found that he couldn't bear to dash them.

So he found a smile somewhere inside himself and he looked at the two women who had lost almost as much as he had.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe there's more."

The expression on their faces told him he'd said the right thing.

"Are you going to come to the sentencing?" he asked.

"I don't know," Patsy said. "A part of me wants to cut off any connection I have to Lane...but he...he's the father of my children, and I loved him for a lot of years. I don't know if I can forget all that."

"Can you really accept the sentence?" Rachel asked.

"Yes," Tim said. "I want this part to be over. There's enough left to do that it's best not to have to deal with it."

Patsy nodded. "We've taken up enough of your time, Mr. McGee. Thank you. Really. Thank you."

Rachel hesitated and then put out her hand. "Nothing we say will ever be enough, but...well, can I just tell you something the agent who listened to us said?"

"What?"

"The truth isn't good or bad. It just is and it can't be changed. At least the truth is known now...and that has mean something."

Tim shook her hand and then shook Patsy's hand. He turned to get into his car once more and then looked back a final time.

"Thank you," he said.

"What for?" Patsy asked.

"For telling the truth...and for...coming out here to talk to me. It can't have been easy and I appreciate it. I hope you both...and your families...you all can get beyond what your husbands did."

After that...there really wasn't anything left to say. Tim said good-bye and drove away. He assumed that Patsy and Rachel did the same.

That evening, he hid himself in his apartment. Alone. Jethro was with...someone else. Tim couldn't remember who had him at the moment. He could just be alone, and he wanted that. He _needed_ the time to process everything that had happened that day. And so much _had_ happened. How could so many events and moments...and things requiring _thought_ be crammed into so few hours?

Tim closed all the curtains and blinds.

No one else really understood it, although they'd tried, but he had some hard decisions to make, some hard looks to take at himself.

The trial was over. Oh, there was still the sentencing, but there was no mystery about that.

The trial was over. What happened now? What was there now?

Tim thought about eating something, but he wasn't hungry. Not at the moment. He'd try to get something in his stomach later, but not right now. His phone rang a couple of times, but he didn't answer it, relying on his voice mail to give the hint that he wasn't interested in company today.

Then, secure in the knowledge that he was alone, that he would _be_ alone for the rest of the day, Tim did something that he was sure no one would understand.

He took off all his clothes and went into the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror, carefully examining every bit as he stared. There were places with faint scars from his rubbing the skin off. If he turned around, there were patches of discolored skin on his back as well, places that just had never returned to normal after the beating...after all that had happened. There was no extra flesh on his body. He was actually rather scrawny if he were honest with himself. Too skinny, really. It hadn't been a conscious decision on his part, just another unexpected side effect. He didn't get hungry very often. He didn't feel sleepy. He still felt a strange disconnect with many of his emotions. With anything that might lead to...excitement. He was afraid of touching that part of the emotional spectrum again. So afraid of it that he seemed unable to feel it at all. Dr. Warren had tried to help him get past it...but he wasn't ready to get past his fear.

What did that leave him?

Existing. Not much else.

He looked at his wrists. It was true that he didn't feel the need to rub them anymore...most of the time.

"What am I doing?" he asked his reflection. "What _can_ I do? I don't know the answer. I don't know what to do with myself. Not now."

His reflection didn't answer him. After a few minutes, he got into the shower, turned on the water and cleaned away the dust and debris of that day. He felt some desire to scrub at his skin much more than was necessary, but he resisted. He didn't spend an overlong time under the spray. He got out pretty quickly, dried himself off...but he didn't get dressed. Instead, he walked over to his bed. He could sleep in a bed now...although he'd never tried a hotel bed. He'd rather not think about that just yet.

He got onto his bed and lay on his stomach, a position he disliked now for obvious reasons. He remembered how they had violently pulled off all his clothes. Everything he had on from his shirt to his watch to his shoes and socks. Everything. They had been so excited by the simple act of stripping him.

Now, he lay on his own bed, naked, on his stomach, trying to tell himself that he was safe, trying to convince himself that it was okay, that he could lay like this and not have to worry.

He knew all that was true, but he didn't really believe it. He didn't feel safe. He felt exposed, in danger...and humiliated.

Finally, he rolled over onto his back, remembering how he had awakened, staring up at the ceiling of that hotel room, remembering what had been done to him...and wishing with all his might that he could have stayed in the darkness of his unconsciousness.

He was conscious of every part of his body as he lay, breathing and staring, wishing for an end to the torment that colored so much of his life now.

He knew how it_ could_ end. He knew a surefire way of ending all the pain, all the horror, all the humiliation he felt every day. He knew it...but he also knew he couldn't do that to everyone who was fighting for him even when he felt it wasn't worth fighting.

It didn't change the fact that it was so tempting. His part in the trial was over and done with. They didn't need him there. He wasn't _needed_ for anything, not really.

But that wasn't true, and he knew it even as he thought it. Too many people had expressed their wish that he would survive, that he would heal. Too many to pretend that it was all a lie.

...but he wanted it to be a lie. He wanted there to be nothing that held him to life...and yet, he couldn't get rid of them. He couldn't because he didn't want to lose his friends, his family...all the things that made life worth living.

A contradiction? Hypocrisy? Who knew? Tim didn't know. All he knew was that, lying here naked on his own bed, he felt like a stranger living in someone else's skin. He felt as though he could scratch it away and reveal someone else, not the mild-mannered computer geek he had been before. There was someone strange and disturbed dwelling just beneath the surface of what everyone expected to see. Someone...not himself.

...and he hated having that disturbed stranger be himself. He wanted it to be different. _He_ wanted to be different. He wanted to be able to set aside what had been done to him and go on with his boring and satisfying life. He'd been happy before. He'd been normal and happy. Content with the life he'd led. ...but now...

Tim turned onto his side and curled into a fetal position, feeling his skin stretch and tighten as he shifted. He was so conscious of his body all the time now.

His phone rang.

He ignored it.

It stopped ringing.

His phone rang again.

He ignored it.

It stopped.

Again, the phone rang.

Again, Tim didn't answer it.

Again, the sound ceased.

Then, one more time, his phone began to ring.

Tim sat up and walked slowly to where his phone innocently sat intruding on his solitude.

He stared at it as it went silent...stayed silent for about thirty seconds and then began to ring again. He waited for it to stop...which it did. He waited for it to ring again...which it did.

Did he really want to answer?


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

Finally, he picked up the phone.

"Hello."

"_Hey, McGee. How's it going?"_ Tony's voice was incredibly nonchalant for the number of times Tim's phone had rung.

"Tony...were you calling me all those times?"

"_Yep."_

"Why?"

"_Just needed to talk to you."_

"I wanted to be alone. I told my parents that."

"_They must have failed to pass on the message."_

Not a hint of embarrassment or chagrine. Not that Tim was surprised by that.

"What do you want?"

"_To talk. You busy?"_

Tim looked at himself...his naked self. He looked around his apartment.

"_McGee?"_

"No...I'm not busy."

"_Great!"_

There was a knock at the door.

"Tony...you're not..."

"_I didn't say where I was."_

"I can't answer the door at the moment."

"_Why not?"_ Now there was a hint of worry.

"Because I'm naked."

"_Should I ask why or should I just wait for you to get some clothes on?"_

"Your choice."

"_Get dressed and open the door, McGee."_

Tim almost smiled since he could tell that Tony was definitely unhappy about his answer.

"Okay." He hung up and walked back to his bedroom. He stared at the clothes in his closet for a few minutes...and then sighed and grabbed whatever was closest to hand. It ended up being a button-down shirt and jeans. He didn't care enough to bother tucking in the shirt. He paused to grab socks and shoes, assuming that Tony wasn't going to be interested in hanging around his apartment.

Then, he sighed and walked to the door. He looked through the peephole and then opened it, reluctantly. He really didn't want to bother dealing with Tony, not right now, not with all that he had on his mind.

"Why didn't you just pick the lock, Tony?" he asked sardonically. "You've done it before."

"Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"I didn't want to. I was busy."

"You just said you weren't."

"Well, I'm not now. I was."

"Doing what?"

"Thinking."

"About what?"

"Stuff. What do you want?"

"Come on."

"Where to?"

"Out. You don't need to be staying inside all the time."

"I don't. I spent a lot of today out. The trial, remember?" Tim gave a fake smile.

"Not really," Tony said seriously. "You never really left this place, even if your body did. You're always in here."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "Wow, Tony. That's very deep. Come up with that yourself?"

"You coming or not?"

"Are you actually giving me the choice or is this something else that's going to be forced on me?" Tim wasn't sure where the venom was coming from, nor why Tony was the one on the receiving end, but he felt no need to make amends.

"McGee," Tony said. "Come on. Your parents are worried about you."

"Why? Why would they be worried? I'm fine! One of the men who _raped_ me is dead! The surviving man who _raped _me is going to prison! His life is in the same ruins that mine has been! Why is there any reason to worry? I'm fine. I'm great!"

Tony's eyes widened. "McGee, what's wrong?"

Tim rolled his eyes and grabbed his keys and his coat. He closed his apartment door behind him and started walking. When Tony didn't follow, he turned back.

"Well? You coming?"

"Yeah, sure. I'm coming."

Tim started walking. It was dark out, cold; the streets were mostly empty. He didn't live in an area that attracted a lot of nighttime walkers. There were active areas of Silver Spring, but this wasn't one of them, particularly in the wintertime. He walked fast, but Tony kept up with him.

"Come on, McGee. Talk to me."

"About what?" Tim asked, still feeling angry.

"About whatever it is that's still eating at you."

"I think you can probably guess pretty easily, Tony. My life isn't some big mystery."

"Actually, Probie, it is."

"Why?"

Tony finally seemed frustrated. "Because whenever something starts to bug you, you run away! You go to...to a state park and hide there all day and half the night. You go to your apartment and hide! You start drinking yourself into a stupor to hide. You don't talk to us! You don't tell us anything. You just hide and hope it'll go away! That's why I don't understand. That's why your life is a big mystery. So...stop hiding and tell me what's wrong!"

Tony put his hand on Tim's arm, but Tim was not in the mood for physical contact and he brushed it away. Tony lengthened his stride until he got ahead of Tim and stopped him from continuing his forward momentum.

"Talk to me, Tim!"

"And tell you _what_, Tony?" Tim asked, allowing himself just to be angry instead of all the other difficult emotions. "Do you want me to tell you that I'm wondering whether or not I should commit suicide and put myself out of my misery? Do you want me to tell you that I've spent the last few hours in my apartment stark naked? Do you want me to tell you that I am so conscious of my own body that when I put clothes on I notice every place the fabric touches my skin? Do you want me to tell you that I can't decide if it's worth living or dying? Do you want me to tell you that the wives of the men who _raped_ me are looking at me and my progress as an indication of whether or not they themselves can heal? Do you want to know about the fact that I'm so afraid of feeling anything like what I felt with them that I don't even know how to feel normal emotions anymore? Do you really want to know all that?"

"Yeah, Tim," Tony said, his voice low but firm. "Yeah, I do. We all do. We _want_ to know all that."

"Why? Don't you have enough to do?"

"Maybe it's escaped your notice, McGee, but we all care about you. It might seem strange but we care what happens to you and we care whether or not you decide to live."

"Why?" Tim asked. "Why do you care?"

"Why do we care?" Tony asked incredulously. "Are you really asking me that question?"

"Yes," Tim said. "Yes, I'm really asking. Why do you want me to live so much? It's not as though I'm contributing anything much at work. I'm hard to be around. I'm dragging everyone down around me. Why do you want that from me?"

"Because you can do more than that. You can get better, McGee. You can because you already have. I don't know why you can't see it."

"Because all I can see when I think about myself is..." Tim turned away and waved his arms in the air helplessly. He didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't as though he couldn't see that there were some improvements. It wasn't as though he didn't know that, but... "...and it's not enough."

"You skipped some things in there, McGee. What's not enough?"

"I know that there are things that are better than they were...but...but my life...what's left of it...it's all...defined by what happened to me. It's all clouded and cluttered and ruined by...by my...because I was raped." He turned back, angry again. "You don't understand what it's like! You don't _get_ it, Tony! This didn't happen to you! You don't know how it feels. The letter that...that woman wrote. I do understand what she means, but _you_ don't. None of you do. None of you _can_ because you haven't felt that. ...and every time you try to insist that you get it, every time you try to point out how far I've come...I only see how far there is to go...and there's no light at the end of the tunnel this time. There's only darkness as far as I can see."

"What are you saying, Tim? Are you saying that you've given up? That everything we've done for you has been for nothing? That you're throwing in the towel now?"

Then, the anger was gone as suddenly as it had come...and Tim started to cry. He knew that Tony was surprised by that, by the shift from irritation to tears...but he couldn't find any way to moderate his emotions.

"What did I say, McGee?"

"I want to give up, Tony. That's all I want to do...but I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because...because I can't put...Mom through that again. I can't hurt her like that...but if I could, Tony...If I could, I would end it in a heartbeat. I know how I'd do it. I know where I'd go. ...but I can't do it. I _have_ to keep trying, but I don't..." Tim ran his hands through his hair. "I don't..._see_ how I can...get...past it. I don't see how this is going to go away. Ever. ...and I want it to go away. I want to stop feeling like this. But it's not happening."

If Tony was shocked, repulsed or anything else by what Tim was saying, he didn't show it. He just grabbed Tim's arms to keep him from leaving.

"It _is_ happening, Tim! It's just...it's slower than you think it should be. Heck, two months ago, you wouldn't have been able to handle me being so close to you. You would haven't tolerated it. ...but you are now! Can't you see? You _are_ getting better. It's just going to take time!"

"I can't handle the time, Tony. I can't!"

"Yeah, you can. You already are."

"No, I'm not. Everyone thinks I am, but I'm not."

"No, everyone _knows_ that you can and that you are...except you."

"That's the problem!" Tim shouted.

"What is?"

"You all think you know! ...but you're not me. You're not the person who has to deal with it. You have to watch me, but you don't have to feel it! It doesn't matter how many little steps I've taken. Those aren't enough to...to let me be happy. I'm not happy, Tony! I'm _not_ happy! Get it? Do you understand what I'm saying? I'm not happy. So what if I can let someone touch me without freaking out. So what if I can go without rubbing my skin raw. So what if the trial is over. _So what!_ None of those things can take away what happened to me!"

Tony was silent and Tim turned away again and began walking back to his apartment. ...but he stopped when he heard the quiet voice behind him.

"Is that what you really thought would happen, Tim?"

The question made Tim himself stand silently, although he didn't turn back to Tony. He heard Tony take a couple of steps toward him.

"Do you really think that any of this will make the rape go away?"

"Nothing will make it go away," Tim whispered.

"Okay," Tony said carefully. "Then, why are you making that a requirement?"

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are, Tim. You are because you've decided that you can't be happy until the rape goes away. ...but it won't. So you'll never be happy. Why make that into the only way you can be happy again?"

"I'm not _making _it that way. That's just how it is."

"No, it's not. People survive being raped, McGee. Some people can't get over it, but others do and they're happy again...and the rape didn't somehow vanish into nothing."

"Maybe they're just stronger than I am. Better people. Maybe they're..."

"No."

That was all. Just the denial and nothing more.

"Then, what's the difference?" Tim asked.

"I don't know, Tim. I'm...I'm not Ducky. Maybe it's because you've decided that it's not possible. ...but it is."

Tim turned around, wiping tears off his cheeks and mustered up a shaky smile. He saw Tony's surprise...especially when he laughed.

"So...did you lose the coin toss?"

"Huh?"

"Coming here to check on me."

Tony didn't smile. "We wanted to make sure you were okay, McGee."

"Well, I'm not. So what now?"

"I don't know...but you shouldn't be spending all this time alone."

"I need to think."

"Do you have to do it by yourself?"

"A lot happened today."

"What happened besides the trial?"

"I talked to the wives of the men who raped me."

"Whoa. Why?"

"They needed to see how I was doing. I pretended I was better off than I was. They don't need to feel any guilt about what happened. It wasn't their fault."

"It wasn't yours, either."

"Doesn't really matter whose fault it was, Tony," Tim said dully. "It still happened."

"Yeah, it did. And it won't be what you think about forever."

"And how do you know that, Tony? You have experience with being raped?"

"No."

"Good. No one should."

"McGee..."

Tim started to walk away again.

"Hey, McGee, wait. Come on, man. This isn't the way to deal with all this."

"Then, what is...since you're so all-knowing?"

"I don't know...but if your way of dealing with it is to assume that you can't, then it's wrong."

"And?"

"What do you mean?"

"And, so what if it _is_ wrong?"

"Then, don't you want to do it right?"

"Is it going to be hard?"

"Probably."

"Then, no, I don't. I'm tired of it being hard."

"So...what will you do then?"

"I don't know!" Tim shouted. "Why do you think I've wanted to take the time to think, Tony? I don't know what I'm going to do!"

"Well...since you don't know what you want to do, McGee, why don't you come with me?"

"Where to?"

Tony finally smiled. "Don't you think it would be a lot more fun to think in a place with good food and a few nice people rather than walking around out here in the cold?"

"Are you one of the nice people?"

"Nah. I'm just the guy to drag you along to the nice people."

Tim sighed. "Tony..."

"McGee, I don't care if you need to think. You're not really thinking right now anyway. You're just thinking that you're going to lose. That's not real thinking, not for a geek like you. You need to do some real thinking and the only way to get you on the right track is to have some smart people tell you what's what. ...and that's not me. So let's go. ...okay?"

Tim sighed and considered.

"Why did you call me so many times, Tony?"

A long silence.

"Why?"

"Because...I was afraid that maybe you _had_ decided to kill yourself and if I kept calling, maybe you wouldn't be able to focus on it long enough to actually do it."

"I want to die, Tony."

"No, you don't. What you want is for life to get better. Well, it can't get better if you're dead."

"It just doesn't feel like it's getting better."

"Get some outside opinions, then. ...because it is, Tim. It really is."

Tim looked at Tony and then around at the dark skies.

"McGee, will you come?"

Another sigh, but Tim nodded.

"Okay."

"Good. Come on."

Tony led him back to his apartment where Tony had parked his car.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Tim didn't bother speaking as he rode over to Gibbs' house (no surprise there). He figured that he knew what would happen, what would be said, and it wasn't that he didn't wish they were right. He did, and he could even acknowledge that there had been some improvements in his life...but right now, he felt as though he didn't have the ability, the strength or the will to get beyond his experience and really live again. Hearing everyone tell him that he could do it really wasn't enough. People had been telling him that for months and he hadn't done it yet. So when was this miraculous recovery supposed to take place?

"You coming, McGee?" Tony asked.

Tim looked out the car window at Gibbs' house, at the cars parked along the street...and he sighed.

"Yeah, I'm coming." He got out and followed Tony into the house.

As he had suspected, people from NCIS, Sarah, and his parents were all there. They were all chatting lightly and he looked at them for a few moments before deciding just to nip it in the bud.

"So...is this an intervention?" he asked.

The chatter died away, but without the awkwardness he had expected.

"If you'd like to think of it that way," Ducky said with a smile. "However, I think you'll find that this has very few of the typical hallmarks. There are no ultimatums, no letters to read, no threats or promises of cutting off access to self-destructive behavior, no insistence on rehabilitation."

"So what is it, then?" Tim asked, now very uncomfortable with all the attention.

"Dinner, first of all," Gibbs said. "You eaten yet, McGee?"

"No."

"Since when?" Ducky asked.

"I had breakfast this morning before I went to the courthouse."

"And you haven't eaten since then?"

"No." Tim saw no point in denying it.

"Very well. That is the first step, then. We've all been waiting ourselves, hoping that Anthony would succeed in getting you here. He thought he'd be the best choice."

Tim raised an eyebrow at Tony who grinned. "Who better than me to be so incessantly annoying that you have to give in?"

Tim rolled his eyes but without the derision he had felt before.

"We'll be fairly cramped with all of us here, but I thought that we could eat in shifts if necessary."

"How long have you been planning this?" Tim asked.

"Believe it or not, for all of three hours," Naomi said with a smile.

"But we've been making plans all along. As Winston Churchill said, 'Let our advance worrying become advance thinking and planning.' We've all worried enough for that to constitute advance planning."

Tim couldn't help but smile. "I knew you could get Churchill into this somehow, Dad."

"Never underestimate the power of Winston Churchill."

"I don't."

"Good. Now, as the guest of honor..."

Tim snorted in disbelief.

"...the guest of honor, you should eat first."

"I'm not really very hungry."

"That's all right," Tony said. "That means more for the rest of us."

"DiNozzo," Gibbs said, threateningly.

"Should I just headslap myself, Boss?" he asked unrepentantly.

Gibbs rolled his eyes but said nothing. He gestured to the kitchen and then jerked his head toward it when Tim didn't move.

"Go on, McGee."

Tim nodded and made his way through all the eyes he felt on him and into the kitchen. He sat down at the table with his parents, Sarah, and Abby and Ziva. Abby hugged him tightly and only reluctantly let someone else sit beside him.

Ziva gave him a plate piled high with food and then smiled at him when his eyes widened.

"You do not have to eat it all if you cannot manage it...but I wanted to be sure you were able to get enough before Tony came."

"It's more than enough, Ziva," Tim said.

The meal passed in relative silence. He could hear Tony, Gibbs, Ducky and Jimmy all talking in the living room while he ate, but those around the table were quiet, allowing Tim to think about what might be coming. It had already started differently from what he expected. After the first shift finished, they took their plates to the sink and cleared the space for the others to eat. Tim went into the living room and sat on the couch. Naomi sat beside him and Sam rolled to the other side by the arm of the couch.

"Tim?" Naomi said softly.

Tim looked at her and then looked away. Her arm went around him.

"Tim."

"I'm only here because you want me to be," he whispered so that only Naomi and Sam could hear him.

"I'm glad," Naomi said. "If that's all that keeps you around, then I'll take it. But, Tim, there's got to be more."

"I know...and there's not."

"Yes, there is," Sam said. "John Milton."

"Which thing that he said, Dad?" Tim asked. "He was fairly prolific."

"'To be blind is not miserable; not to be able to bear blindness, that is miserable.'"

"And that fits with this, how?" Tim asked.

"Come on, Tim. You're not even _trying_."

"Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because it's not."

"Tim, you're at a point now where you can make a choice, where you _have_ to make a choice. You can't coast along anymore. That's what this is about. It's not about what we're going to force you to do. It's about what you decide you're going to do. We just want to help."

Tim felt the tears again and he looked at Sam briefly. "Can you make the pain go away?" he asked. "Dad, can you make it stop hurting?"

Sam leaned over and hugged Tim tightly. "No, I can't. No more than you could make my pain go away, but you still helped me. Let us do the same."

Tim leaned against Sam and closed his eyes, almost tired out just by the simple act of capitulation.

"You're spending yourself in a worthy cause, Tim. And you can know the triumph of high achievement."

Tim just shook his head and waited for the others to come into the living room. Abby and Ziva stayed quiet and Sarah seemed uncomfortable. He couldn't blame her for that. Right now, he really couldn't blame any of them for anything. It wasn't anyone's fault...maybe his...but none of theirs.

Finally, everyone was there and Tim sat up, pulling away from Sam. He looked around at them all expectantly.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?" Gibbs asked.

"You've got me here. You made me eat. What now?"

"Now, Tim, it's your turn to talk," Gibbs said. "No more hiding and just giving up."

"Just? You think it's easy?"

"Easier than trying, isn't it?" Tony asked.

"Yeah."

"Isn't that why you want to give up?" he persisted. "You said you were tired of things being hard."

"I did."

"Tim, enough with the one-word answers," Naomi said. "You need to _talk_ to us. Tell us what you're feeling. Let us see how we can help."

"You _can't _help," Tim said, looking around at them all. "That's the problem. You can't. I know you want to and you have up to now, but you can't. You can't change how I feel. You can't change what happened to me. You can't make a difference. It has to be me...and I just can't do it. I just don't know how to...find my way out of where I am. I'm tired of fighting against how I feel."

"How _do _you feel, Timothy?" Ducky asked, leaning forward.

"Tired," Tim said.

"Tired of what?" Ziva asked, gently.

"I'm tired of waking up in the morning and remembering what was done to me. I'm tired of having moments of fear when people approach because I don't know if I can trust them. I'm tired of having nightmares. I'm tired of the looks I get from people at work who know what happened and question it. I'm tired of wanting to rub away the marks. I'm tired of fighting a fight I feel like I can't win." Tim sighed. "But most of all, I'm just tired of being a rape victim. ...and that's something that can't ever go away."

There was a brief silence but then it was broken...by Jimmy of all people.

"Yeah, it can," he said.

Everyone stared at him and he gulped.

"I...I mean...people who are in accidents aren't just accident victims. They're people who were in an accident. Get it?"

"No," Tim said.

"It's simple...well, simple in the way you think about it. Not simple, I'm sure, in how you deal with it, but it's a start."

"What is, Palmer?" Tony asked. "You need to be clearer."

"Stop thinking of yourself as a rape victim. That's not who you are. You're Timothy McGee. You're an NCIS agent, a computer gee–...er, expert, a novelist. You _do_ a lot of things. Everyone does, but you're not just one thing...not even..." He hesitated and then continued. "...not even a rape victim. So...you stop saying that's what you are. It's something that _happened_ to you, but it's not who you are." Then, he nodded, obviously satisfied that he'd made his point.

"That's pretty simple, Jimmy," Tim said. "Do you think that I _like_ what happened?"

"No!" Jimmy said instantly, distressed at how his words had been taken. "No, that's not it at all. I just think that you can't move on until you..." He looked to Ducky for help.

"Mr. Palmer is quite right, Timothy," Ducky said. "Your focus needs to move _away_ from the rape and back onto your life. You need to start living again rather than re-experiencing something you hate."

Tim started to protest but Ducky raised a hand.

"Before you tell me that you can't help when the memories intrude, understand that I'm not saying you'll never think of it again, but you need to see something more."

"How?" Tim asked. "How do I do that?"

Ducky smiled. "You won't want to hear this, Timothy, but you must start trying again. I know you're tired of it. I know you want it to be done, but it's not and it can't be if you don't try. You can't hide and expect it to go away. ...and you can't expect _us_ to go away either. We won't. You have made great progress in the last few months. You can make more."

Tim sighed and sagged back against the couch without answering. He pressed his palms against his forehead and closed his eyes tightly. This _wasn't_ what he wanted to hear. Not in the slightest. He didn't want to hear about more to do. He liked the idea of people being there for him, but not the idea that he had to stop hiding. All he could do for a moment was try not to start crying again.

He didn't see the looks passing amongst the others in the room.

"I would like to make a suggestion, Timothy, if you would listen."

"What?" Tim asked dully. He didn't want to hear that he had to keep trying, that there were more steps to take, that he had to keep fighting. He was so _tired_ of that.

"I hope you'll forgive us for taking steps without asking you first, but Director Vance has already given his okay."

Tim was surprised enough by that addition that he sat up, knowing that his eyes were glistening a bit but not caring who saw.

"Director Vance?" he asked carefully.

"Yes," Ziva said. "We have been talking about how we might best help you."

"And we decided that maybe you needed to have some pressure off," Abby added.

"What do you mean?" Tim looked around at them all. It wasn't like his coworkers to hedge like this. "What did you do?"

"This isn't set in stone, McGee," Gibbs said. "We just made sure it would work out before we suggested it. If you don't like the idea, then that's fine."

"What idea?"

Tim looked at his parents, but this time, they were keeping quiet. Whatever was being suggested, he understood that it was not at their instigation but at that of his friends and coworkers.

"We'd like to suggest that you take an extended leave of absence from NCIS," Ducky said.

"A...leave of absence?" Tim asked, looking around at them all. He couldn't seem to wrap his head around the suggestion.

"Yes."

"I know I haven't been...but..."

"Probie, this isn't because you're not working hard enough," Tony said with a smile. "If it was, I'd have been put on a leave of absence a long time ago...and they'd never let me back in."

Tim managed a smile, but it didn't last. He was too bothered.

"Timothy, we think that you might do better if you were able to focus on fewer things at once. Of course, it's been hard for you. You've had to worry about the trial, about your family, about work, about your therapy. Everything. If you can take some time to relax a little bit, you will likely find it easier. Don't you agree?"

"I want it to be easier...but..." Tim tried to work out how he felt about the idea. "...but what would I do?"

"Work out your life," Abby suggested.

"Relax!" Sarah said.

"Sleep in!" Tony added.

"Tony," Ziva chided.

"And this will help?"

Sam patted Tim's knee. "Could it possibly hurt more than you do now?"

Tim looked down. "Probably not."

"You don't have to decide right now, Tim," Naomi said. "Just think about it. We can wait. We just didn't want to wait too long to ask you."

Tim nodded and then stood up. "I...need to think."

Gibbs pointed. "The basement's free."

Tim smiled and nodded again. "Thanks, Boss."

He walked over to the basement door and walked halfway down the steps before he sat down. It felt as though there was just too much pressing in on him at once and he didn't know what to do.

"What do I want?" he whispered.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tony?" Abby asked, biting her lip.

"He came. That's something," Tony said, bravado gone. "...but he's messed up from everything and..."

"...and I think you're right," Sam said. "This is the best option for him. All this is too much for him on his own, and he can't keep it up forever. Even Dr. Warren has suggested that he's trying to do too much too soon."

"But he has been doing so well," Ziva said. "He came back here and seemed much better."

"He _is_ better," Ducky said. "Much better, but he still has far to go...and it is rare that people only make progress with no regress. Timothy is regressing somewhat out of sheer emotional exhaustion. The trial was difficult for him."

"He was really tired after today," Naomi said. "And it wasn't because he'd done a lot, but because of the decisions he had to make."

"And the rapists' wives talked to him after, too," Tony said.

"They did?" Abby asked, almost indignantly. "Why?"

"He said they wanted to know how he was doing. I guess they wanted to know that he wasn't ruined for life. He said he pretended to be better than he was so that they felt better."

"Can he get better?" Sarah asked. "Really. _Can_ he? Or is this all just some sort of desperate attempt?"

"He can," Gibbs said. "He's a lot farther than he thinks he is. That's why we want to let him get away from here. So he can see it, too."

"How will that help?" Sarah asked, echoing Tim's earlier question.

"By giving him the time to see it without having to confront all the things that are hardest for him. A lot of aspects of his life have been affected by all this...but not Ohio...and not any other place he might choose to go. He needs to get away from DC."

"What if he won't?"

"Then, we will continue to try to help him," Ziva said. "But he should have an alternative and know that we will not blame him for taking it."

"Besides, it'll give us a chance to come visit and get a glimpse of McGee's old stomping grounds!" Tony said with a smile.

Sarah smiled in response. "You think this is best for him?"

"Yeah," Tony said. "He told me tonight some of what he's been thinking about, some of what he feels...and what it really boils down to is that he's overwhelmed."

"But is he too overwhelmed to make a decision?" Naomi asked.

"We'll see," Gibbs said. "We can't push."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim let the minutes pass unnoticed as he sat in the basement. ...but finally, after a little while, he decided he'd been there long enough. He knew what he had to do.

Slowly, he stood and walked up the stairs, to the door, back to the living room. He'd been gone long enough that they were chatting in small groups, except for Gibbs who saw him first. He'd apparently been watching the door.

Tim smiled a little.

"You're right," he said without any preamble. "I need time...and I don't even want to take it, but I will. I need the time."

Gibbs nodded. "We'll get all the paperwork filled out tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Why don't you stay here tonight, McGee? No point in going back right now."

Tim smiled. "Guess not. You sure you want to deal with that?"

Gibbs crossed the room. He didn't touch Tim at all, but he spoke quietly.

"If it helps you get through this, McGee, I'll deal with anything."

The tears welled up again. "Thanks, Boss."

"Anytime, McGee. Anytime."


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

It took less than a week for all the arrangements to be made for Tim to take his leave of absence. To begin, there was little point in going anywhere besides Ohio. No one wanted Tim to be alone; so it made the most sense for him to go home. Dr. Warren gave Tim some recommendations for therapists he could see while away from DC. She enthusiastically endorsed the idea of Tim breaking his life down into more manageable chunks.

So...off he went to Ohio. For the first few weeks, he essentially hid out at home, talking to few people and leaving only rarely. However, he did talk with his family more, and the lack of pressure from the trial as well as the fact that he was only dealing with his family made his stress levels drop dramatically. He and Naomi would go out on clear nights to look at the stars. He spent time with Sam reading in the study. Sarah came to visit when she could, but she had school much of the time...and flying out to Ohio was expensive.

Tim went back to DC for the sentencing, but it was uneventful and he was glad to escape back to Ohio after it was over. The current plan was for Tim to be on leave until the summer and then he would come back to DC, hopefully ready to ease back into his life again.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Spring Break, March_

Naomi woke up in bed, not sure what had awakened her. Then, Sam rolled over.

"You hear that?" he asked, sleepily.

She listened. Not a voice, but a lot of motion.

"It must be Tim. I'll go check."

Sam pulled himself into a sitting position and listened. "Sounds bad. Go."

Naomi heard the slight hint of bitterness in his voice. He couldn't go up the stairs, after all. She kissed him quickly...but didn't speak of it. There was nothing to say.

Then, she hurried up to Tim's room. The sounds of movement now were accompanied by soft mumblings. She opened the door to find her son tossing and turning, fighting against the blankets that had become twisted around him.

"No...get off...stop...no..."

The struggles became more frantic and Naomi hurried over to sit on the bed. She began to untangle the arms and legs fighting to be free.

"It's all right, Tim. It's okay. You're safe. Wake up."

Tim's eyes opened, but he wasn't awake yet.

"Let me go...no! Stop...stop...stop..."

"Wake up, Tim," Naomi said.

She got the blanket off him and he sat up looking around wildly.

"Tim?"

He blinked and met her eyes before dropping his head and shaking it.

"You all right?"

He nodded but wouldn't look up. Naomi smiled and touched Tim's arm. He flinched and shook his head.

"Bad?"

Tim nodded.

"Tim."

"I remember..." he whispered.

"I know."

"It had been..."

"I know."

Tim let out a shaky laugh. "I should make one of those signs..."

"What signs?"

"The ones that say that they've gone so many days without an accident. Ins-stead I could write something l-like 'Five days without a nightmare!' What do you think?"

"If you'd like to, I'm all for it."

"I wouldn't have to make very many numbers. Can't go for very long."

"Yet," Naomi finished.

"Yeah."

"Tim, you've been doing better. You know that you have."

"But obviously not there yet."

"Tim," Naomi said sternly, "you're doing better. You know that full recovery isn't expected yet."

"Only wished for."

"I know...but you can keep wishing."

Tim shivered a little. He'd kept his bedroom colder than the rest of the house. He didn't like feeling too hot in bed.

"You ready to go back to sleep?" Naomi asked.

"Sure. Why not?"

"Okay, lay down and I'll tuck you in."

Tim smiled and lay down. He stiffened slightly as she put the covers over him. The extra weight...but Naomi soothed him, talking softly until he started to relax. Then, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I should be doing better than this."

"No, you shouldn't. It's fine, Tim. Don't worry." She hated to hear the discouragement in his voice...and it was so very easy for him to feel that way even after two months of leave.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay. Just go back to sleep."

Naomi leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, just as she used to when he was young. Tim sighed and slowly slipped back to sleep. When he was fully relaxed, Naomi crept out of the room and back downstairs.

"He asleep again?"

"Yeah."

"Nightmare?"

"Yeah."

"Bad?"

"Yeah."

Sam took her hand. "He's been doing better. He'll be okay, Naomi."

"I know, Sam. I do, but I hate seeing how desolate he feels when he has to feel all those things again."

"Let's see how he is in the morning. That will tell us more than tonight will."

Naomi smiled and then snuggled close to him, gently moving his legs out of the way so that she could feel his arms around her.

"I love you."

"Back at you," Sam whispered in her ear. "Tim will be okay."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Second weekend in April..._

Tim woke up early and wondered why he had set his alarm for a moment. It was the first time he'd bothered since coming to Ohio. Then, he rolled over and saw the first faint indications of the sun rising and remembered.

He was going running.

It was a small thing, but he had decided that he needed to get outside. The week before he had looked at himself in the mirror and noticed how pale he was, how flabby he seemed to himself. So that meant doing something about it. Getting exercise took his mind off other things...but it was still doing things.

It meant going outside. It meant risking seeing people who might know about him and ask or who might _not_ know and ask awkward questions.

He got out of bed and pulled on some sweats and a t-shirt. Then, he walked downstairs. As he had expected, his parents were already up. He wasn't up extremely early. Only about seven a.m., but it was earlier than he'd _been_ getting up.

"Good morning, Tim," Naomi said. "Your dad is grading essays. His favorite part of being a professor."

Tim smiled. "I'm going to go running. I have time before breakfast?"

"Of course, go for it." She gave him a thumbs up and then headed for the kitchen.

Tim squared his shoulders and headed for the front door. He got the door open and took a deep breath before stepping outside. He looked both ways, trying to decide which way to run but then he just started going. He was surprised at how out of shape he was. He knew he hadn't been doing much, but his endurance was gone. A single mile made him tired, but he pushed on, trying for at least two miles before he conceded that he could go no further. By the time Tim got back home, he was panting and his heart was racing. He was a sweaty, tired mess.

...but he had run two miles.

...and he did it every day that week.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_May, the day before the one-year mark..._

"_So?"_

Tim smiled at the terse question. No one could accuse Gibbs of being verbose.

"I'm doing better. I ran four miles yesterday. Killed me, but I did it."

"_And tomorrow?"_

The smile slid from Tim's face.

"Can't keep it from coming, Boss. No matter what I do. It'll still be here."

"_I know. What are you going to do?"_

"Try to ignore it."

"_Maybe you shouldn't."_

"Maybe not...but that's what I want to do."

"_You going running tomorrow?"_

"Maybe."

"_You should."_

"I know. I've got to go, Boss. Thanks for calling."

Gibbs could obviously tell that Tim was ending the conversation on purpose, not out of any real need.

"_All right. Bye, Tim."_

"Bye, Boss."

Tim hung up and sighed. It wasn't gone. Still, it wasn't gone.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_The next day..._

The door to his bedroom opened quietly. Tim was awake but he was still in bed.

"Tim?"

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you going running?"

"No."

"I think you should."

"I'd rather stay in bed."

The door closed and Tim rolled over so that he faced the wall.

...but he wasn't alone for very long.

The door opened.

"McGee."

The voice was so unexpected that Tim sat up and turned toward the door.

"Boss...what are you doing here?"

"Going running. You coming?"

"What?"

"You heard me. The others are downstairs."

"What others?" Tim asked.

"You coming?"

Tim looked at him, not knowing what to say. Finally, Gibbs smiled.

"We'll wait for you."

Then, the door closed and Tim was left sitting in bed wondering what had happened to the world when Gibbs was showing up at his parents' house to go running. ...and others. What others? Tim had planned on staying inside today. It would be easier than facing the world _and_ dealing with the fact that it had been one year since he'd been raped.

...but if there were people downstairs, he couldn't just stay in his room and hide. He had to go down to see them...at least see who it was. So, reluctantly, Tim got out of bed and got dressed. ...in his running clothes. Then, he tentatively walked down the stairs to the living room.

"Probie!" Tony said, bouncing to his feet. He was dressed in running garb. As was Ziva, Jimmy, Abby, Gibbs...but not Ducky. "You ready to run?"

Tim looked at them all, feeling almost worried by this sudden appearance of his friends.

"Uh..."

"Come on, Tim! I'm even going to go out without my parasol!" Abby said. She was dressed all in black (of course) with an NCIS hat and wrap-around sunglasses. ...and gloves. Black gloves.

"Abby, you're going to roast in all that black."

"It's not that hot and if we leave now, the sun won't even be very high."

"But...I..."

"We will not leave you behind," Ziva said with a smile.

"I will not be joining you, I'm afraid," Ducky said, "but I'll be here when you get back."

"I...don't...want to go outside," Tim said quietly.

Ducky stood and walked across the room. He leaned in close so that he could speak to Tim and Tim alone.

"There are times, Timothy, when what seems the hardest and most impossible thing to do is actually much easier than you might think. It does not take as much effort as you fear to walk out that door, but in doing so you will be showing your incredible strength...which I already know you possess. Don't let something so innocuous as a single day sap it from you."

Tim bit his lower lip and looked over Ducky's shoulder to the smiling group, waiting patiently for him.

"It is a simple thing, Timothy. Go."

A deep breath and swallow. "Okay. Okay. I'll go."

"Good. Let's go," Gibbs said.

The horde headed for the door, Tim in the lead. He paused briefly before opening it but turned the knob and stepped onto the porch.

"Shall we?" Ziva asked softly from behind him.

"Okay."

"You set the pace, Probie," Tony said.

Tim only nodded and started jogging. It was a slow pace. Everyone kept up fine and Tim began to feel a little better about being outside. He knew that he didn't have to worry about most of the things that worried him. If only he could always convince himself of that.

"How's it going, McGee?" Jimmy asked, coming up beside him.

"Okay."

"Not great?" Ziva asked from his other side.

"No. Not great."

"Are you afraid?"

Tim thought about that as they turned the corner that would eventually lead him back home. ...and he was surprised to find that...

"No...no, I'm not afraid."

"That is something," Ziva said and then sped up just enough that Tim was left running silently beside Jimmy.

As simple as it was, Ziva's statement stuck with him for the rest of the run. They got back to Tim's house, all panting a little, and Tim himself was more tired than he wanted to admit.

Promising to show up at the house for lunch, they all begged off of staying for breakfast. Tim was grateful that he had the chance to rest and clean up before they all were around again. He showered quickly and then retreated to the study where he sat and read the full text of the speech Theodore Roosevelt had given in 1910 at the Sorbonne in Paris. The context of the quote his father had said to him was interesting, and there were a few other parts that drew his attention.

"'If a man stumbles, it is a good thing to help him to his feet. Every one of us needs a helping hand now and then. But if a man lies down, it is a waste of time to try and carry him; and it is a very bad thing for every one if we make men feel that the same reward will come to those who shirk their work and those who do it.'" Tim stared at those lines for a long time before continuing on in his reading.

After he finished reading the speech, he went back to the quote that had originally drawn him to it and read it aloud.

"'It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.'"

He set the speech aside and walked to the window, looking out on the world.

"That's something," he whispered.

It _was_ something. Was it enough?

"Maybe I can make it enough." It was a new thought...and strangely enough, it didn't seem nearly as impossible as it had seemed a few months ago.

"Tim?"

Tim turned around.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"How are you feeling?"

Tim thought about it and searched for the right word. Then, he found that he could smile.

"Hopeful."

"That's a good way to feel."

"It's kind of new for me."

"And how is it going?"

Tim looked back out the window for a moment.

"'The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds.' I've been coming short. I've made mistakes."

"To be expected."

Tim turned to face his father.

"Maybe I can do better."

"I think you can."

"I hope so."

Sam rolled over to Tim and pulled him down into a hug.

"Tim, if you have hope, then you can make it...because the rest of us have known all along."

"Thanks for helping me up, Dad...and everyone else."

"You can thank everyone else at lunch. They won't mind waiting."

"It's been a year."

"And there are a lot more years to come."

For the first time, Tim felt he could agree...and he did.

"You're right, Dad. There's lots more to come."


	37. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Three months later...August..._

Tim woke up, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was hot and all the covers were on the floor.

_Please let them fix the A/C today,_ he thought. Usually, his apartment was fine, but the heat wave over the last week had conspired to leave him utterly miserable.

He rolled over and looked at the clock. He was awake early. No big surprise there what with how hot it was. Then, his eyes strayed from his clock to a small framed quotation. He smiled as he looked at it and got out of (or rather _off_ of) his bed.

The sound of paws clicking on the floor alerted him to Jethro's approach and he sighed.

"Out, huh?"

Jethro panted and went off to grab his leash. Tim knew he couldn't put that off, but the temperature hadn't even fallen to 70 degrees overnight and it wasn't his idea of a nice time to deal with this heat. Still...

"All right, all right. Let me get my clothes."

He grabbed some running shorts, a t-shirt and his shoes. As he headed for the front door, he noticed that Jethro's water dish was empty. He'd have to make sure there was plenty for him while he was gone today. They didn't go far but did still run even in the heat and humidity of August in DC.

He got back and gratefully headed in to take a cold shower. Then, as he got dressed, he paused and looked at his wrists, at the scars that still marked them. He scratched at one wrist for a moment and then shook his head and took a deep breath.

"No."

Forcing himself to focus on his routine, Tim finished getting ready for the day. He refilled Jethro's water dish...and then got out the waterer he'd purchased the day before. He filled it with water and set it on the floor.

"Now, this should do you until I get back. Don't drown yourself."

Jethro barked at him and began lapping up the water.

There was a traffic jam on the way to work. Tim sat anxiously, waiting for the cars to start moving again. As he waited, he found that his hands had strayed to his wrists again, not scratching but absent rubbing. He firmly moved them back to the steering wheel.

Finally, traffic crept forward again...and he was on his way.

...but not for long. He saw a man stopped along the side of the road, car hood up and staring in distress at whatever it was he saw. Tim wasn't really car savvy, but he normally tried to stop and help where he could. He hesitated as his car slowly approached and came level with the stalled car. Then, he was ahead...and pulling over to the shoulder. He came to a stop as the cars around him kept going and stared at his steering wheel.

_What am I doing?_

But he knew what he was doing and he took a deep breath before opening the car door. He walked back toward the man.

"Oh, thanks for stopping. You would _not_ believe the morning I've been having," the man said, a relieved smile on his face. "I just got into DC last night and got this stupid rental and then my phone's gone dead...and I don't know the numbers to call for tows or anything anyway. I don't want to miss this interview. I need the job. Do you know anything about cars?"

Tim smiled and hoped it seemed sincere.

"Not a lot, but I do have a phone. So if I can't see what's wrong, then at least you can call for a tow."

"Thank you. Really. Thank you. My name's Chris." He held out his hand.

"...I'm Tim." He hesitated and then shook hands. He saw that Chris noticed the scars on his wrists when his jacket pulled back...but he didn't say anything about it.

"So...do you see what's wrong?"

Tim looked at the engine. He knew the basics about car maintenance; so he could at least check the obvious things. He checked the oil (full up). The connections...and then he saw it...and smiled.

"Here it is."

"What?" Chris leaned over and Tim tensed slightly at how close he was.

"Th-The battery. It's probably charged up fine, but your post connection...or whatever it's called...it's come loose. That happened to me when I had an older car. It's easy to fix. You just need to take it in to any shop and have them replace the connector."

"How am I going to get there, though?"

"You can fix it temporarily. You just have to get it as tight on there as you can and then hope you don't hit any big potholes." Tim smiled.

"You think it'll get me to where I'm going?"

"Well, where are you going?"

"The Smithsonian. I'm applying for a job as a curator. I got laid off last year and I've been trying to get something in my area of expertise ever since."

Tim reattached the connection to the battery as tightly as he could.

"Okay, now try it."

Chris got into his car and turned the key. The welcome sound of the engine roaring to life made Tim smile. Chris got out of the car, a wide smile on his face.

"Wow. Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. I would never have thought to look at the battery post."

"You know, if you're going to the Smithsonian, it would probably be easier to take the Metro rather than find a parking space down there. The Smithsonian doesn't have a parking garage, you know."

"No, I didn't know. The last time I was at the Smithsonian...let's just say I was a lot younger. I'm from back West...and the town didn't have much in the way of public transportation."

"Well, take my word for it. You'd be better off parking your car at a Metro station and taking that."

Chris looked around, as if he'd somehow see a Metro station magically appear. Tim laughed.

"The Takoma station has parking. If you get in your car and drive to the next intersection and then turn left and go three blocks, you'll see the Takoma station. When you get in there, there are machines where you buy your fare. Put probably about ten dollars on it and then, when you get on the train, and head toward Fort Totten stop. Stay on until you get to the Metro Center and then transfer to either the Orange or the Blue Line and ride toward the Federal Triangle. You'll get off on the stop after that, the Smithsonian stop."

Chris nodded. "Thank you again. Man, I'm lucky you stopped."

"You have no idea," Tim said and then smiled at the confusion on Chris' face. "I...sometimes have trouble talking to people I don't know."

Chris only nodded. "Well, thank you doubly, then. Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

Tim shook his head. "No. Not a thing. You already helped me more than you could ever know."

"How?"

"I couldn't really explain it. But thank you. Good luck with your interview."

"Thanks." Chris walked back to his car but he stopped. "Good luck with...whatever it is that's hard for you right now."

"Thanks." Tim walked back to his car and got in. He looked back once and saw Chris still staring at him. He waved and Chris waved back before turning his attention back on the road. As he merged back into traffic, he sighed with relief. He could only now admit to himself how frightened he'd been about stopping. As he continued on his way, he began to smile, happy at his success.

The rest of the drive was uneventful, but he was late. He pulled into his parking space and hurried inside. When he got in, he sighed. The A/C was working here at least.

"Welcome back, Agent McGee!"

Tim smiled. "Hi, Henry. It's good to _be_ back."

"You doing all right?"

"Better than I was."

"Good."

That was it. Henry passed him in and Tim got on the elevator, riding it up to the bullpen.

"You're late, McGee," Gibbs said.

"Sorry, Boss. Traffic jam...and I stopped to help a guy whose car broke down."

Gibbs stopped and looked at him with surprise just for a second. A smile briefly quirked his lips and then he was back to business.

"Tony and Ziva are already up in MTAC interviewing for our latest case. You can get caught up. The files are over there." He jerked his head toward Tim's desk.

"Right, Boss." Tim started walking over.

"McGee?"

"Yeah, Boss?"

There was a long enough pause that Tim turned around.

"What, Boss?"

"You all right? You ready to be back?"

Tim thought about everything that had happened today, about the nights he'd had since coming back to DC two weeks ago. He looked down at his wrists and then around the bullpen.

He met Gibbs' gaze and nodded firmly.

"Yes. I'm ready to be back."

"Good."

Tim smiled. "Thanks, Boss."

He sat down at his desk and opened the files on the MCRT's latest case.

"And McGee?"

"Yeah?"

"You know they're going to make you celebrate."

"I know."

"You okay with that?"

"I think so...mostly." He rubbed his wrist for a moment and then stopped. Gibbs noticed.

"You don't want to, let me know and we'll stop."

"I will, Boss. Thanks."

Tim looked around one more time...and Tony and Ziva, just coming out of MTAC caught his eye. He smiled.

"I'm glad to be back, Boss."

"Good."

Tim sat back for just a moment. Was everything perfect? No, but that was okay. It was enough...and it would get better.

_It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out __how the strong man stumbles__, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause;  
__**who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.**_

_~Theodore Roosevelt_

FINIS!


End file.
